


Baptism by Fire

by suethor



Series: our god is a consuming fire [1]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Asshole Tommy Shelby, Canon-Typical Gang Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, Dubious Morality, Enemies With Benefits, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Fake Relationship, Friends With Benefits, Hate to Love, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Lack of Communication, Loss of Virginity, Mutual Pining, Period-Typical Sexism, Plot Twist, Posessive Tommy Shelby, Pride and Prejudice energies, Protective Tommy Shelby, Rough Sex, Sad Tommy Shelby, Slow Burn, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, World War I, ok i'm not gonna lie there's sugar daddy implications in this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:48:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 128,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25350397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suethor/pseuds/suethor
Summary: There's no love lost between accountant Beatrice Price and Peaky Blinders leader Tommy Shelby, but when Trixie begins to grow suspicious of Birmingham's newest barkeep, they're forced to take action.  Action, in this case, involves maintaining the facade of a romance, a role that becomes surprisingly easy for the former-rivals to play.(season onetommy / oc)
Relationships: Ada Shelby & Original Female Character(s), John Shelby & Original Female Character(s), Polly Gray & Original Female Character(s), Thomas Shelby/Original Female Character, Tommy Shelby/Original Character(s)
Series: our god is a consuming fire [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1835836
Comments: 663
Kudos: 661





	1. Prologue: Women's Work

**Author's Note:**

> find me on [ tumblr ](http://suethor.tumblr.com) and check out [ my carrd ](http://suethor.carrd.co) for links to playlists, edits, and more! <3 thank you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listen to this chapter’s soundtrack [here.](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5pizag334DjR235eqLFPmp?si=IES5CucXTlGZQeJVWoY0pw)

_ “ _ _ Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil."  _ -Psalm 23:4

Three Angels of Death chased Beatrice Price through life. 

The doctors called the first Consumption. At nineteen, Trixie watched it destroy her father before her eyes, ruthless as all hell. She used to sit by his side and read him the Good Book as he drifted further and further from her. _Terminal_ , the doctors said. Incurable. If he couldn’t return to preaching, he would return to heaven, he used to say, and when the Lord eventually did call him home, he was so delicate and frail that Trixie wondered if there was much left to call. 

Nineteen was too old to consider herself an orphan, but it was what the Consumption had made of her. Trixie’s mother had left the world as she arrived, growing sick soon after giving birth; she’d never missed her—she’d never _known_ her—but the loneliness after her father’s passing had her dreaming up stories of how life would be different had her mother survived. Maybe she wouldn’t be drowning in debt to a cruel landlord. Maybe she wouldn’t be walking the streets in search of work every morning and coming home exhausted and empty-handed each night. 

Women weren’t meant for lives like these, she knew. If she’d listened to her father, and married Luca before he enlisted, she would be cared for by his family, but he’d been eager to throw himself into the trenches, leaving her with nothing but a brass ring and a promise to return. She wrote him letters, from time to time, and did not send them. What would be the point? He couldn’t read. 

Trixie walked the streets during the day and she waited at night, but the skies stayed grey and the winds stayed cold. She clung to survival desperately, her life running like a string parallel to death: always close, and never touching. 

* * *

“Do you want a drink, or are you just going to sit there?” 

Trixie was in the Garrison Pub, against her better knowledge. Her father had warned her about places like these and the men who tended to inhabit them. Even as she tried to make herself small, she could feel their eyes drag across her warily, and the man behind the bar was no different. 

“Gin,” she ordered, blurting out the name of the first drink that came to mind. 

“For you?” he asked, giving her another once over. 

She glanced over at the empty barstool next to her. “Who else?” 

The answer satisfied him enough, though he grumbled as he went to fix her a glass. 

She wouldn’t be able to afford it. She was barely making rent, as it was, but this wasn’t the kind of place where men offered to buy drinks for girls—and maybe more importantly, she wasn’t the kind of girl men bought drinks for. As she sipped from the glass, she suppressed her own coughs at the burn. Much stronger than the wine from church. 

“Where are you from?” the bartender asked. 

“Here,” she answered, avoiding the question she knew he was actually trying to ask. Her dark skin was an unusual sight for most of the people in Birmingham, and despite her permanent residence in the city, nobody ever seemed to get used to it. “My father was Pastor Martin.” 

“I don’t go to Church,” said the bartender. 

“Neither do I,” she replied. 

He pointed at the ring on her hand. “Married?” 

“Engaged,” she answered. “He’s fighting.” 

“So’s everybody.” 

“I need a job,” she admitted suddenly. “I have no income and rent’s due in three days.” 

He made a big show of laughing, throwing his head back and patting his chest heartily. Trixie waited. When she didn’t join in, his grin dropped from his face. Soberly, he replied, “We don’t hire women. Try the brothel three doors down, they always have openings.” 

Trixie flattened her lips into a line. “I don’t have any interest in being a whore. But I’m good with numbers, and I can read.” 

“ _You?”_

Again, she turned to the empty bar stools at her sides. “I don’t know _who else_ you think you’re talking to. My father taught me to read, and I kept track of the collections at his Church.” 

He narrowed his eyes at her, reaching under the counter for something. Next thing Trrixie knew, he was throwing the newspaper at her. 

“Read the first article,” he ordered. 

She rolled her eyes, gingerly sliding her drink aside and lifting the paper in her hands. “ _Owing to the summary rejection by the German government of the request made by—_ ” 

He pulled the newspaper away, skimming the article as if to verify that she had read it correctly. “What’s your name?” he asked, after a moment of narrowing his eyes and mouthing the words on the page. 

“Beatrice Price.” 

He shrugged. “It’s a nice party trick. Drink’s ten shillings.” 

_Dammit._ Trixie reached into her purse and threw the change down, already hopping of the barstool. Another long day of walking, another night empty-handed. 

* * *

The second angel of death struck the day before rent was due, and made Trixie a widow. Part of her knew what the telegram would say before she opened it, so she made a point of cooking dinner very slowly to put it off just a bit longer. When she had settled at the table to eat, she swallowed thickly and tore the seal from the paper. 

**WE DEEPLY REGRET TO INFORM YOU THAT PVT. LUCA DESILVIO DIED OF GUNSHOT WOUNDS ON NOVEMBER 21, 1917.**

Trixie cried that night, for the first time in years. What was she supposed to do with herself but waste away? In the morning, her landlord would come to collect money she didn’t have, and if the war ever ended, nobody would come home to her. The brothel wasn’t looking so bad—not anymore. 

She resolved to go down the next night. Anything to stay alive.

* * *

In the morning, it wasn’t the landlord who woke Trixie up by banging incessantly on the door. Her eyes were puffy from the night before, but she could make out through the window a dark-haired woman in a hat. 

“Beatrice Prince?” she called, through the door. 

Trixie pulled it open, ignoring the fact that she was still dressed in her night slip. “Price,” she corrected, before she remembered her manners. “Oh—um, I’m sorry. Beatrice Price.” 

“Polly Shelby,” the woman returned, seeming like she either didn’t notice or didn’t care that Trixie had been rude. She pushed past her into the cramped apartment, spinning in a circle as she sized it up. “I hear you’re good with numbers.” 

“ _Really?_ ” Trixie exclaimed, her eyes bugging out in disbelief. 

“Yes? Was that information wrong?” 

“No!” She shook her head. “No, no, that’s correct. I’m good with numbers, I’m good with money, too. And I can read.” 

“Well, my accountant just got killed in a German trench,” the woman said. “And I need someone to help out my...business.” 

“Right,” said Trixie. “Well—I can help.” 

“Did you go to school?” 

“Not...technically.” 

“Are you particularly fussy about your morals?” 

Trixie’s eyes darted over to the Bible on her nightstand. Maybe before, yes, when she had something to lose. But whatever test of strength God was trying to throw her way had just broken her. Now she had nothing but herself. “No, Mrs. Shelby,” she answered. “I don’t.” 

Polly Shelby nodded slowly, giving her another once over. “When can you start?” 

* * *

Trixie’s third angel of death was named Thomas Shelby. 

Where the first two took, he destroyed, and in the ashes he left in his wake, Trixie found herself reborn. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> good news everybody! i am now peaky blinders trash. anyway thank you for reading!! if you feel so compelled, please leave a review letting me know what you think :) 
> 
> _Chapter One: Bad Intentions  
>  “Are you some kind of whore?” Tommy asked.  
> The woman looked down at her body, as if checking to make sure. “Not that I know of.” _


	2. Bad Intentions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We'll make up a reason for you to betray us," Polly replied. "It won't be an issue. We just need to know where his investigation is going, and if it's pointing to us, you'll throw him off the scent."
> 
> "Alright," Trixie agreed. "What's the reason?"
> 
> This time, it was Polly who delayed her answer by ashing her cigarette in a tray on her desk and flicking the butt out her office's open window. "Lover's quarrel," she answered finally.
> 
> "Excuse me?" Trixie asked.
> 
> Polly pointed between her and Tommy. "Lover's quarrel," she repeated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listen to this chapter’s soundtrack [here.](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/09hw2Oz1wR33eBki1Z3Jm9?si=dhczKJ83TiyaqpC5mnNN1Q)

**_“_ _Be sober-minded; be watchful. Your adversary the devil prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour.”_ -1 Peter 5:8**

Thomas Shelby had given himself a one-week-long grace period when the war ended to recover. It had been, for the most part, to quell Poll's nerves, but he would be lying if he said he didn't need it. All that digging had left an ache in his shoulders that refused to fade. Not to mention the dreams of the bombs, or the way he could close his eyes and drift back to the trenches in France.

On the day he returned to work, Tommy vowed that he was finished with taking orders. He would march into Polly's office, demand back his position, and make known to the city that a new generation of Peaky Blinders were taking charge—and this time, they would be far less merciful.

When he arrived, though, it wasn't his aunt behind the desk—instead, a small woman in her twenties sat waiting, clad in pearl earrings and a black dress. Her short hair had been waved neatly; her eyes outlined with charcoal. She didn't look up at him, didn't acknowledge him, just continued scratching numbers down into her papers and muttering to herself as she skimmed through the books.

"Hello," he said, after a long moment of waiting in the doorway.

That got her attention. The woman stood up and stepped out from behind the desk, bowing her head slightly, and offering him a half-smile. "Mr. Shelby."

In her heels, she stood almost as tall as him. Looking remarkably unimpressed with him, she offered a lace-gloved-hand out for him to shake. He ignored it.

Who the hell was this? "Are you some kind of whore?" he asked, hanging back in the doorway.

The woman looked down at her body, as if checking to make sure. "Not that I know of," she answered after a moment of brief inspection. She dropped her hand. "I'm Beatrice Price, Mrs. Gray's accountant."

"Polly doesn't need an accountant," Tommy disagreed, and he meant it. His aunt had been trained in finance, she didn't need some outsider to help out. The woman said nothing, just arched an eyebrow challengingly. _Interesting._ Tommy took three long steps towards her, stopping just short of a collision, and waited for her to flinch. She didn't move, just tilted her head back and stared up at him. "Who are you _really?_ "

"Beatrice Price," she repeated, her voice still achingly sweet. "Mrs. Gray's accountant."

"Tommy!"

Behind him, Polly stood in the doorway, a cigarette between her fingers. "Who the hell is this?" he demanded.

"Beatrice Price," she answered. "She's my accountant, stop harassing her."

"You don't need an accountant," he protested.

"Maybe not before, when all you boys were home to help out. But since you were all _gone,_ someone had to run things, and I couldn't be bothered with tracking numbers when I was doing business. Trixie here has been a real help to me."

He whirled back around to Beatrice, who he found smirking in victory. Anger bubbled up in his stomach. He'd been gone, yes, he'd had no choice—but he'd never met this woman in his life; how was she now involved with his family's finances? Especially given the kind of business they were involved in. How was he supposed to trust some stranger? "Well, we're back now," he announced. "We won't need you working here anymore."

"Tommy, _please_ ," Polly sighed, exasperated. "Trixie, stay put. Continue working."

She nodded, returning to the seat behind the desk and resuming her muttering, much to Tommy's annoyance. Before he could object, though, Polly seized onto his arm and dragged him out the door, shutting it behind them.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" she hissed, throwing his arm back down.

"You brought in an outsider," he stated, voice flat.

"Would you calm down? She won't betray us. Everybody else she knows is dead."

That did calm him down, but only marginally. "People are always making new friends in places like this."

Polly made a noncommittal noise. "I wouldn't be so sure," she disagreed. "Not during times like these."

Tommy stared down at his aunt. Despite the height disparity, she matched him in force. "Well, we're back now. And I'm sure Arthur won't be too happy about this." His older brother, now in charge of the family, had always shared Tommy's dislike for outsiders. Surely Beatrice would be no different?

"Arthur's fine with it," Polly dismissed, waving him off. "She stays. Don't you dare argue with me about it."

He gritted his teeth, reaching into his pocket for a cigarette instead of answering. "Do you have a match?"

Polly flattened her lips into a line, her eyes still glued to him as she offered him the box. "Behave," she demanded.

He laughed bitterly, breaking his eyes away from his aunt and glancing out the window at the bustling street outside as he swiped the match across the book. He was Thomas Shelby; he hadn't returned home from three years of hell just to take more orders, but the look Polly fixed him with communicated that he didn't have much of a choice. If he wanted to make his grab for power, he had to stay on his aunt's good side. It wasn't ideal, the waiting game, but he knew this business well enough to understand when sacrifices needed to be made. When he was in charge, he would throw the woman out of their family's business. It was only a matter of time.

"Thomas," Polly prodded. "Do you understand?"

He took a drag from the cigarette and blew out the smoke. "Understood, Poll."

All he needed now was to wait.

* * *

**ELEVEN MONTHS LATER**

There were no more blue skies left in Birmingham. Even on the rare days when the clouds receded, the thick plumes of smoke from the new factories billowed out into the air and blocked out the sun, casting gray shadows across the entire city and swallowing it whole. Trixie had grown used to it, sure, but she found herself missing the days when her father would take her further from the city and give her the chance to see the sun. She found herself missing a lot of things.

It was foolish. She was too busy to dwell on the past.

Watery Lane was noisy, the heavy industry construction sending thuds ringing out across the horizon. Children ran around playing and crying. As she pulled the door open to door number five, signing the cross at the horseshoe over the door, she stepped inside the Shelby house and enjoyed the silence for a few brief moments.

"Are you praying?"

Trixie winked one eye open and found Finn, the youngest of the Shelby siblings, attempting to light a cigarette in the fireplace. He looked over at her curiously, the last bits of youthful innocence in his wide eyes. "No," she answered. "Just catching my breath. It's cold outside."

"Tommy says the cold is good," Finn informed her. "Drives people to desperation."

"Tommy's an idiot," Trixie replied, hoping the Devil in question was lurking somewhere in the house to overhear. To his credit, he was right for the most part—the cold was good for business, typically, but not with their latest horse-racing venture. People needed spare money they could bet, or at least let the hope of the warmer season drive them to spend money they didn't have. With autumn in full force, neither were guaranteed, and extra precautions needed to be taken to make up the difference.

"He'll kill you if he hears you say that," Finn said.

"Hope so," Trixie returned, swiping the cigarette from Finn and throwing it into the fire. No ten-year-old boy should be smoking, especially not in the house.

"Trixie? Is that you?"

Polly's voice drifted in down the hallway from her office, and Trixie patted Finn on the head. "Be good, Finny. I'll bring you sweets after work."

"Chocolate?" he asked, voice lifting an octave with hope.

Trixie shrugged. "Anything for the birthday boy." Then, standing to her full height and smoothing out her dress, she called, "It's me!" to Polly.

"Come in here, please," the older woman replied.

She removed her hat and coat, draping the latter over her arm as she made her way down the hallway. Trixie knew that it was only proper that she wear heels to work, but the loud noise they made against 5 Watery Lane's hollow floors was nearly painful. As a woman in her line of work, she preferred to move around unseen and unheard; it was where she could be most effective. The heels were like a bell announcing her arrival and intentions, two things she typically preferred to keep secret.

To her dismay, Polly wasn't the only one waiting. Thomas Shelby had joined her in the office, and he made a point of blowing a cloud of smoke in Trixie's direction as she entered.

"Yes, Polly?" she asked, hoping this was a conversation she could have from the doorway.

"Sit, Trixie," Polly said, gesturing to the seat beside Tommy. Seemed like she was out of luck. Trixie obeyed, sinking down into the wooden chair and folding her coat across her lap, pointedly dodging Tommy's eyes. "We've had a meeting last night," Polly announced.

"Yes," Trixie said, nodding. "I was with John when Arthur announced it."

"Well, it looks like there's a new copper in town."

"One of ours?" Trixie asked.

Polly shook her head. "Tommy?" she said, gesturing to her nephew.

"He's a Chief Inspector," Tommy informed her, taking a drag of his cigarette. Trixie resisted the urge to cough back at him. "From Belfast. Scudboat and some of the others saw him in a bar handing these out." Balancing the cigarette between his lips, he reached into his pocket and handed her a folded piece of paper. When she opened it, she found an ad seeking men over five-feet and in fighting condition.

This wasn't good, she knew. Cops could be divided into two categories: slimy bastards that were on the Peaky Blinders' payroll, and slimy bastards who weren't. The first, at least, were useful from time to time. These men seemed to fall solidly into the second category. "Why are they here? Nothing's changed recently."

"Would you like to explain, Tommy?" Polly asked, her voice pointed with anger.

Trixie bit back a smirk. Polly seemed to be the only one capable in the world of scorning Tommy, and it was always a treat to bear witness to it. Trixie watched him hesitate to open his mouth, knowing full well that he didn't trust her, even though she'd never given him any reason not to. He was just like that—he'd made up his mind about her eleven months ago when he returned from war, and she him. Nothing either seemed to do could sway the other's opinion.

"There was a robbery," Tommy replied simply.

Trixie arched an eyebrow. "There's always a robbery. That's the business."

"A robbery gone wrong," he corrected. Trixie waited as he took another long drag from the cigarette, in a seeming effort to delay his explanation further. She could be patient, when she wanted to be. "I had some men stealing motorcycles from the BSA factory for a buyer in London. They took the wrong crate."

Her brow furrowed. "What was in the crate they took?" she asked.

Tommy looked back and forth between her and his aunt, almost asking permission. Polly gestured with her cigarette. "Well, go on, then."

He sighed. "Twenty-five Lewis machine guns."

"Sweet Mother of God," Trixie gaped.

To emphasize his point, Tommy added, "And 10,000 rounds of ammunition. Fifty semi-automatic rifles, 200 pistols with shells."

She blanched, eyes glancing up towards the ceiling and heaven as she steepled her hands together and muttered a quick prayer.

"I don't suppose you could send your men back to return the guns," Trixie said. The glare Tommy sent her dropped the temperature in the room by a few degrees. "Sorry, _Mr. Shelby."_

Trixie watched carefully as his jaw tightened and he gritted his teeth. He was handsome, sure. She would give him that. But the steel-blue eyes and face carved from marble hardly compensated for the nerve he carried with him when he walked into a room. Every interaction Trixie'd had with him seemed to have happened for the purpose of insulting her, humiliating her, or both. No amount of good looks could make up for that.

"We need someone to get eyes on the copper," Polly announced. "It has to be you."

Straightening in her chair, Trixie tried not to let her surprise show on her face. It wasn't odd for Polly to confide in her. She had been briefed on most everything that the family was involved in, she managed most of their money. she was the only accountant Arthur trusted to verify their numbers. But her work had always been strictly behind the desk, or in the Shelbys' betting parlor calculating odds and tracking statistics in their books. "Why?" she asked, fighting to keep her expression blank.

"You'll have enough distance from the family," Polly explained.

"You're not one of us," Tommy added on, just to be a bastard about it.

Trixie smiled at him sweetly. "I don't have that much distance," she pointed out. "I work here. I don't speak to practically anyone _except_ your family, and the tailor in the Italian Quarter who makes my hats."

"We'll make up a reason for you to betray us," Polly replied. "It won't be an issue. We just need to know where his investigation is going, and if it's pointing to us, you'll throw him off the scent."

"Alright," Trixie agreed. "What's the reason?"

This time, it was Polly who delayed her answer by ashing her cigarette in a tray on her desk and flicking the butt out her office's open window. "Lover's quarrel," she answered finally.

"Excuse me?" Trixie asked.

Polly pointed between the two of them. "Lover's quarrel," she repeated.

Trixie narrowed her eyes, looking over at Thomas and trying to make sense of Polly's words. She would choose death over spending any more time with him than necessary, and she got the feeling that one day she would. What was she supposed to do with the words _lover's quarrel?_

"All you'll have to do is have one fight down by the Cut and word will spread. If he needs something, he'll come to you, Trixie," Polly explained.

"Us?" Tommy interjected. "The plan was for her to go with Arthur."

"Arthur's not in charge, though, is he?" Polly asked, and Tommy sat back in his chair. Though he was the oldest of the Shelbys and technically their leader, Arthur lived his life halfway down a bottle of whiskey; he hardly had enough sense to button up his vest, let alone run an elaborate criminal operation. "It won't take him long to figure out who was behind the robbery, Thomas, especially if he's as much of a problem as you say," Polly said. "And I should hope you have your head on straight enough to realize that a few lies are better than being strung up and hanged."

Trixie bit her tongue. She was hardly pleased with this plan, but one fight by the Cut was hardly an issue. It would probably involve less pretending to fight Tommy than to carry on as though she liked him. Besides—what choice did she have? If Tommy was caught, the Blinders would go down, and her with them. She held no other allegiances or loyalties, had no other allies. No matter how unfortunate she found it, it didn't change the fact that her best interests were aligned with his.

"What am I to tell him?" she asked.

"Well, you'll have to make yourself useful enough for him to want to keep you around."

"I think I can manage that," Trixie replied. After all, what had she been doing during her time with the Peaky Blinders? "Am I to wait for him to approach me? Or should I go to him?"

"Wait," Polly instructed. "Word travels. Women talk."

Trixie smiled to herself. "It's one of the things we do."

"Good," Polly said, nodding sharply. "I'm glad we've got this all in order. Head to work, yeah?"

"Yes, Polly," Trixie agreed. "Thank you."

There was a specific kind of fondness that accompanied the smile Polly sent her; maternal, almost. Trixie couldn't be sure as she didn't have any model to compare it to, but she liked to imagine that, despite Tommy's contempt for her, she could find some sort of belonging with the Peaky Blinders if she worked at it hard enough. If anyone in the world cared for her, it would be Polly—a mother without children and a daughter without parents—but Trixie hesitated to put weight on the relationship when she wasn't yet sure of its strength.

Leaving the office in favor of the betting parlor out back, she dug hurriedly into her purse for a cigarette. The meeting had made her late, and while nobody in the parlor had any real authority to punish her—especially for following Polly and Tommy's orders—the work wouldn't slow down. She liked to arrive early to work to keep the money from piling up, uncounted, and now she'd lost her head start.

Trixie struck the match as she walked, no longer worried about the clicking of her heels against the wood. The curtain dividing the betting parlor from the main house was practically a door between worlds, pushing her from the quiet family home she'd just been in towards a bustling city of gambling men. At only eight-thirty in the morning, the chaos had begun, with men shouting numbers and horses' names back and forth.

Her only solace recently had been John Shelby, who was currently throwing down a glass of whiskey as he hurriedly scratched numbers onto the back wall's chalkboard.

"Little early, don't you think?" Trixie asked, pulling the glass from his hand and setting it down. She handed him her handkerchief. "Your lip's split." John accepted the fabric, dabbing at his bloodied lip and handing it back to her. Trixie placed it back into her purse and clicked it shut. "Rough night?"

"Good night," he corrected. "Can't remember most of it, though."

She laughed. That sounded about right for John. Trixie patted him fondly on the shoulder and took her seat at the head of the table, where runners were already desperately counting out money for the day's races. A fair amount of cash had piled up, and she hurried to begin counting, removing the gloves from her hands to keep them clean and stop her fingers from slipping as she fanned out bills.

Behind her, John shouted out, "Place your bets here now for the Kempton at 2:30!"

Trixie moved her hands rapidly over the growing piles of coins and bills that the other men had counted and ordered. They were good enough at their jobs, but there was nobody Arthur trusted like Trixie, leaving her to verify that the processed amounts had been accurate. At this point, the motions were almost a habit. Every day, the tops of her arms would grow numb as she pushed herself to work faster, stacking coins, fanning out bills, weighing piles of change. Her earrings swung as she moved, brushing the sides of her neck as she finished one pile and reached for the next.

"Martin, you're undercounting again," she called out, coins skidding across the table before another one of the runners returned with a tophat to collect the amount she'd just balanced.

"Sorry, Trixie," Martin called back.

She eyed his open bottle of whiskey but didn't say anything, knowing that if she considered his numbers again, she would lose track of the amount she was on for the next pile. It was already a distracting enough atmosphere—men bustled around calling out the names of their favored racehorses, and John, bless him, shouted out rapid statistics as he chalked down numbers on the board in the back. "What do you say? I've got Sovereign, he's an old favorite, four-one!"

Despite the distraction it caused, she found she didn't mind the chaos; especially not when things were looking as good as they were. Monaghan Boy, Tommy's horse, was collecting most of the bets, which meant Trixie was going to get a larger commission this month, which meant she was going to be able to buy the hat she'd been eying a few lanes down in the Italian Quarter, and then maybe new curtains for her apartment.

The hours of work passed quickly, and by the time the betting window had closed, Martin's bottle of whiskey was nearly empty and the rest of the men at the table had sunk into a pleasant state of drunken joy. Not Trixie— _never_ Trixie. She liked the opportunity the men gave her when they got drunk and sloppier, and she was able to correct their work. She became all the more useful, all the more necessary, so long as she stayed sharp as others faded away.

"How's it looking, Trix?" John asked, waving away the man in the seat next to her. He scurried away, and John collapsed down into his place.

"It's looking…" She glanced down at the numbers in the book. " _Very_ good."

"All bets on Monaghan Boy?"

"Almost. Only a marginal amount for anybody else—hardly a problem."

John shrugged. "Keeps things looking fair, right?"

Trixie smirked at him. "Something like that."

The room suddenly grew quiet, and Trixie glanced up to find Tommy strolling in through the doorway, pristine as ever. Without the cloud of smoke clinging to him, he seemed too sharp to be real; his eyes too blue. Trixie pursed her lips.

"Tommy, look at these," John called, waving his brother over. "All for Monaghan Boy. Again."

Tommy leaned in, his presence like a knife wavering dangerously close to Trixie's face as he inspected the numbers over her shoulder. "Good work, John," Tommy commended, clapping his brother on the back and nodding curtly in Trixie's direction. "Beatrice."

She rolled her eyes, slamming the book shut and nearly missing John's thumb.

" _Hey!"_ he complained, as Tommy drifted back towards the chaos in the middle of the room. Chatter slowly began picking back up, the wave of terror he sent through the parlor fading.

"It wasn't meant for you," Trixie assured him. "Just your brother."

"I see," John said flatly. "One of these days you're going to get yourself killed, you know."

There it was—the second admonition from one of Tommy's brothers. Trixie was due to see Ada later; maybe if she stopped by Arthur's office before leaving, she could get each of his siblings to warn her about the dangers of crossing him. Trixie glanced back out at the crowd of men, where Tommy and Arthur were having a heated discussion in Arthur's office. Well—Arthur looked heated, slamming his fists down on his desk, while Tommy leaned patiently against the wall and waited for his brother's outburst to finish. "Maybe," she agreed distantly. "But Thomas Shelby isn't the worst thing I've had to survive."

John laughed at that, stepping back up to the chalkboards and scratching down the numbers the other runners were calling out. "What kind of hell have you been through then? Huh, Trixie?"

She shrugged. "It's not important."

John pointed down to the brass ring on her finger. "Anything to do with that?"

"It's not important," Trixie repeated, drawing her fingers into a fist and hiding her hand behind her back as subtly as she could. "Anyway, what's got Arthur so angry?"

"He doesn't like when Tommy goes over his head," John replied, making a grab for the bottle of whiskey and pouring it into the nearest empty shot glass. "Makes him feel threatened."

It made Trixie feel threatened, too. The closer Tommy got to seizing power, the closer she got to being thrown back out on the streets. If she was better-tempered, maybe she would put some effort into trying to get on his good side, but she where she lacked in attitude, she made up for in intelligence. Trixie was smart enough to know that it would be a total waste of time. The best she could offer was staying out of his way, and she was already prone to that when it came to the Shelby men. She was a woman. She knew her place.

"You want some?" John asked, nudging Trixie with his elbow and pointing unsteadily at the bottle.

She shook her head, eyes drifting back over to Tommy in the office. _Lover's quarrel._ She nearly snorted out a laugh. Trixie would die before loving Tommy Shelby.

Heaven help her.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are getting into it now! I'm planning on diverging from canon a bit, but not too much. Also I wanted to say thank you to those who reviewed, and left kudos! Please let me know what you thought of this chapter :)
> 
>  **Chapter Two** / _Trouble Follows_
> 
> His movement was so sudden it knocked the wind from Trixie's lungs. Still, he was surprisingly restrained, one hand caressing her neck under the guise of a chokehold and the other planted firmly against the small of her back to keep her from toppling over backwards into the river.
> 
> "You could look less like you're enjoying this, you know," she informed him, only vaguely registering that he quite literally held her life in his hands. Over his shoulders, passers-by watched the situation carefully.
> 
> "Funny," Tommy replied, though his face remained blank. "I was about to say the same to you."


	3. Trouble Follows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You could look less like you're enjoying this, you know," she informed him, only vaguely registering that he quite literally held her life in his hands. Her pulse raced, less from alarm and more from the thrill of closeness. Over his shoulders, passers-by watched the situation curiously.
> 
> "Funny," Tommy replied, though his face remained blank. "I was about to say the same to you." Leaning in close to her ear, breath hot, he mumbled, "Are you still feeling brave?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listen to this chapter’s soundtrack [here.](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1J4Ew80MiIcSzvkQKFj1Fj?si=v9eei3feSSC_6It1PzAEdQ)

_ “Beloved, never avenge yourselves, but leave it to the wrath of God.”  _ -Romans 12:19

Trixie assumed that she and Tommy would discuss the terms of their _Lover's Quarrel_ in advance, but when she peered through her front window to find Tommy waiting in front of her door for her, she realized that she had been wrong.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded, yanking the door open. "How do you know where I live?"

He pressed the door with his fingertips and Trixie, startled, moved out of the way, allowing it to swing past her so that Tommy could come in. "Do you think there's anything in this city I don't know?"

"I'm positive I can find something."

Tommy ignored her, inspecting her body. She hadn't yet gotten ready for the day—usually, she left around eight, and the sun had barely risen now. Nevertheless, Tommy was wearing his usual three-piece suit, looking as immaculately sharp as ever. In her striped pajamas—Luca's old nightclothes—she felt dreadfully out of place. This was improper, she knew. Tommy Shelby—or any man—should be seeing her in her nightclothes. But despite her dislike of him, she was afraid of him to some extent, especially without Polly around to defend her. "You're not ready," he remarked.

"You didn't tell me you were visiting," she retorted, turning her back on him and returning to the stove to find her water boiling over. Trixie pulled a bag of oats out from her cabinet and poured some into a bowl, following it with water from her kettle. " _Why_ are you visiting?"

"Figured we could get the _quarrel_ out of the way," he replied. When she turned, she found him looking at the few drawings she had tacked up on her wall. Luca had been something of an artist, sketching charcoal portraits of her and her father as gifts prior to his proposal. Trixie hadn't ever been able to afford a camera, so they were the only images of her likeness she owned.

"At seven-thirty?" she asked. "Sun's not even up."

"I'm an early riser." Something about the way he said it made Trixie feel like it assigned some sort of judgment towards her, but she didn't completely understand how. She ignored it. "The men at the cargo ports start working at seven. We should be at the Cut before they finish unloading their first batches."

Trixie sat down at the table, shoveling a spoonful of porridge into her mouth and considering. Men at the ports didn't gossip that much, did they? Certainly not enough to justify Tommy being at her house so early. The only other explanation was that he'd done this to, yet again, assert some sort of power over her. There he was, looking the way he did—and her, bare-faced and wearing her dead lover's pajamas.

He turned away from the portraits to find her eating her breakfast. "Care to hurry up?" he asked.

"Not particularly," she replied.

Tommy's lips flattened into a displeased line, but he didn't say anything, just pulled out the other chair and sat down in it. Trixie did her best not to flinch—she hadn't disturbed the chair's position since Luca's notice came in the mail all those months ago. But Tommy had just thrown himself into it as though he owned it. She didn't comment.

After a long moment under his scrutinizing gaze, Trixie pushed back, abandoning her oatmeal. "I'm going to get dressed. I swear to Christ, Tommy, if you look at me, I will sell you out to this copper myself."

For the first time since she'd known him, Tommy's lips quirked up into a slight smile. He looked so much younger for that moment, less god and more human. She'd overheard stories of how he'd changed from before the war, but she'd never asked Polly about how true they were. All she knew—all she'd ever known—was the cold-hearted, ruthless man who'd been glaring at her over a bowl of oatmeal. The humanity faded as quickly as it had arrived, and she brushed past him towards her armoire, pulling out a work dress and coat.

Tommy, to her relief, allowed her her modesty. She watched him over her shoulder as she shrugged off the nightshirt and replaced it with her brassiere and dress. The line of his back remained stiff and facing her sink. He looked so odd there in her kitchen, like a knife atop a pillow. Trixie remembered her father warning her, _When the Devil comes knocking, turn him away._ Yet another way she'd failed him.

After slipping on her stockings and shoes, she grabbed her hat and marched back over to her kitchen, her heels clicking threateningly as she went. "Fine," she said. "Let's go."

The chair skidded noisily across the floor as he stood, and she hissed in a breath. Tommy gave her a look of exasperation, collecting his own coat and heading for the door. Outside, Trixie's upstairs neighbor was pissing on the trash bins, muttering to himself absently. She kept a careful distance from Tommy, noting yet again that the sky was gray. At this rate, she wouldn't see the sun again until she died—and honestly, with the person she'd become, she sorely doubted she'd be let into heaven.

"What are we quarreling about?" she asked as they made a turn along the sidewalk. " _Lover."_

Tommy's face hardened, and she felt a pang of annoyance at the way everybody skittered out of their way to make room for him. She didn't blame them, but she had little appreciation for men and their politics of intimidation. "It would only be believable if you were upset with me."

Her eyes flew to him. " _What?"_

"If I was angry with you, I would be done with you. I wouldn't waste time with an argument," he responded smoothly.

Her jaw dropped the slightest bit. "You are the most arrogant man I've ever met." she gasped. "For Christ's sake."

"It's true," he said, his eyes still focused on the skyline through the haze of smoke and clouds. "You're only proving my point."

Trixie stared at him for another few seconds, and when he didn't react, she huffed and folded her arms across her chest. "You're _unbelievable."_ They swung over to the road that walked along the canal, her footsteps growing quicker the angrier she got.

"You're mad at me," Tommy said. "Are you not?"

"I wouldn't waste my time arguing with you if it weren't my job," she informed him. "Why do you think I do so much work to avoid you?"

"Same reason they do," he replied, jutting his chin out at a group of men skittering to the side and nodding politely at him. "Gentlemen."

"Mr. Shelby," they each greeted.

Trixie skidded to a stop. "You don't think I'm afraid of you, do you?" she asked. Tommy sighed, pausing his steps to wait for her to finish her outburst. She waited for him to say something, and he offered her an arched eyebrow in reply. It was answer enough. "I'm _not_ ," she promised. "You may be able to fool everybody else in this damn city, but you cannot fool me, Mr. Shelby. _I see you for what you are_."

"And what's that?" he returned, the corner of his mouth turning up the slightest bit. Trixie faltered. _Arrogant. Hubristic. A total and complete arse._ She had answers, but as he stepped closer toward her they all seemed to die on her tongue. Now they were chest-to-chest, and he was staring down at her and waiting.

"You—" She stopped. "You're a _bastard,_ Tommy Shelby. You're a bastard playing god, and you don't scare me."

His movements were sudden, three long steps that pushed Trixie towards the canal until the wall was digging into her back. He leaned in and she leered away, losing her balance and wobbling across the edge. The wind escaped her lungs, her pulse kicking heavy in her chest. When she didn't fall, she looked down to find one of Tommy's hands caressing her neck under the guise of a chokehold and the other planted firmly against the small of her back to keep her from topping backways into the Cut. Tommy Shelby was a great many things, but gentle wasn't one of them. Trixie glared at him and he pressed the pads of his fingers into her neck, white-hot against her skin. Not so much like a threat—more like a promise.

The fact of the matter was that Trixie had not felt another's skin on her own since Luca left for the war. She kept her gloves on with the sole exception of working with money, and even now, the satin fabric protected her as she gripped the jagged brick wall hastily, trying to stay still. Her eyes sunk shut and she leaned into the touch almost instinctively, enjoying the way his heat cut through the cold, before she realized what she was doing— _who_ she was reacting to—and snapped them open again. Tommy's face hovered mere inches from hers, his eyes studying her closely. She recognized something in him—was it victory? Was it power? Something else?

"You could look less like you're enjoying this, you know," she informed him, only vaguely registering that he quite literally held her life in his hands. Her pulse raced, less from alarm and more from the thrill of closeness. Over his shoulders, passers-by watched the situation curiously.

"Funny," Tommy replied, though his face remained blank. "I was about to say the same to you." Leaning in close to her ear, breath hot, he mumbled, "Are you still feeling brave?"

She was grateful not to be fair like Ada, or else the blush on her cheeks would've given her away—given _something_ away, at least. Tommy released her neck and pulled her back towards him. Trixie stumbled forward into his chest with a grunt.

"Jesus," she swore, her mouth pressed against his breast pocket. She caught a whiff of his cologne, subtle and deep and expensive; to her horror, she found herself enjoying the scent. After finding her footing, she stood up straight, fixing him with a glare. He remained unaffected. "I don't think you would've done it," she stated. "Thrown me in, I mean."

"Why not?" he drawled, smoothing down her coat. She jerked away from him and did it herself. Once she'd flattened out the creases and brushed any gravel off her dress, she turned back to him.

This time, she pushed up towards his face, testing to see how still he would remain. " _Because,"_ she said. "You need me."

Tommy turned his head and flicked his cigarette past her into the canal. "We have never needed you, Miss Price," he replied. "You're only around because Polly needed an assistant."

"Accountant," she corrected. "Don't you dare treat me like I'm nothing."

He paused, and Trixie braced for him to try and cut her down with an insult, but instead, he gave a half-shrug. "We'll see how useful you can make yourself with this new copper."

She bristled. She was something—even apart from work. Even apart from the people she'd lost, and the haunted apartment, the church she now avoided. She was Beatrice Price; she wanted things like blue skies and a trip to the sea, nice hats, and something to believe in. Tommy Shelby didn't get to assign her value. Shoving past him, she carried on down the street toward, ignoring the loud heavy click of her heels on the concrete and hurrying along.

To her annoyance, Tommy's long strides caught up easily, and looked much calmer than her own staccato steps. She didn't say anything to him as he stuck beside her, just tried to resist the urge to attempt to strangle him. As much as she would enjoy it, she was doubtful of her ability to do so successfully, and also, it would definitely warrant her being either forcibly removed from the Peaky Blinders or simply killed by them. Neither consequence seemed all too appealing.

"Where are you going?" Tommy asked, as Trixie split off from him and headed in the direction of the Garrison instead of the headquarters on Watery Lane.

"I need a drink," she responded. "And since I have an hour before I'm due at work, _thanks to you,_ I figure I'll kill my time at the pub."

"Alright," he replied, shrugging. "Goodbye then, _dear_." He ducked his head towards her and leered away.

"What the hell are you doing?" she hissed.

"Eyes on us," he mumbled, taking advantage of her momentary confusion to press a chaste kiss on the side of her face. When he pulled away, Trixie craned her neck and found a group of women watching them intently from the corner. They disbanded as soon as she started staring, all suddenly keeping to themselves. Trixe turned back around, hoping to give Tommy a piece of her mind, but he had already started down the street towards the office. Trixie stood flabbergasted, staring after him. What in the world had just happened?

Still trying to decode his odd behavior, she turned slowly back towards the Garrison and pulled the door open. Inside, men from the shipyards were already drinking and the stench of whiskey lingered, heavy. She sat down at the bar and crossed her ankles delicately, waiting for Harry to finish with the man at the end of the counter.

"Can I help you?"

Trixie jumped in her seat. The person speaking to her was decidedly _not_ Harry, but a pretty blonde with an Irish lilt to her voice. "Who are you?" she asked, before she could help herself.

"Grace," she replied. "I just started working here."

"Huh," said Trixie, nodding slowly. "Alright. Can I have a coffee?"

"Yes, ma'am," Grace said, nodding and busying herself with making her drink.

Harry came to greet her soon after, pointing at Grace behind him. "She's a nice girl, isn't she?"

Trixie nodded, but responded, "Not sure how many nice girls end up working in bars like this. Where's she from?"

"Galway," Harry replied. "I warned her about working here, but she was awfully insistent. She had references and everything." They both watched her, humming as she brewed a pot of coffee and poured some into a mug for Trixie. Though Harry seemed pleased with the woman, Trixie couldn't help but wonder why anyone would be insistent to work in the Garrison. Even when she'd tried to get hired the previous year—given, it had been under different management—she'd been doing so as a last resort before prostitution. If she'd had references and been white, she certainly wouldn't have chosen the Garrison.

So it felt strange and somehow _wrong_ that Grace went out of her way to be working here. She wanted something. She had to be wanting something. And Trixie needed to find out what, exactly, that was. Paired with the sudden arrival of an Irish cop? She doubted that this new girl's intentions were good.

"Did you run this by Tommy?" Trixie asked. Harry hesitated, which meant _no._ Which meant that this was news for Trixie to deliver, and hopefully, another way for her to stay useful.

"Do you think he'll be upset?" asked Harry.

"Not if she doesn't make any trouble," Trixie replied. Tommy was a prick, yes, and he liked to find things that were wrong with her, but that tendency didn't seem to apply to anybody else. In fact, he was relatively well-tempered, so long as nobody got into his way.

Harry tapped the counter, nodding thoughtfully. Whatever happened, Trixie needed to beat him to breaking the news to Polly.

"Milk and sugar?" Grace asked, and Harry took leave to the office.

Trixie hesitated. "Milk, no sugar."

Grace nodded, retrieving a carton and pouring a bit into the cup. She delivered it to Trixie and smiled nervously.

"What brings you to Birmingham?" Trixie asked, stirring her coffee and feigning innocent curiosity. The woman was a pretty blonde, thin but clearly not starving. Her clothes were bright and neatly pressed, and they fit her well enough that Trixie could recognize that they were tailored.

"Oh, I just needed a change of environment," Grace admitted.

"And you chose here, of all places?"

She shrugged and Trixie noted her pause. "I wanted to try living in a city, but London overwhelms me. Do you like it here?"

If she was working with the new Chief Inspector, Trixie could start feeding false information to her and see what happened with it. "It's not bad," she said, choosing her words carefully. "My fiance's family is here, so I don't mind it much. Weather's dreadful, though."

"Congratulations on the engagement," Grace commented politely. "When's the wedding?"

"We haven't set a date yet," Trixie replied flippantly. "He gets quite busy with work."

"What kind?"

Trixie paused. "Business," she answered eventually. "He's quite powerful around here."

"Would I have heard of him?" Grace asked.

"Maybe," Trixie said, playing coy. "His name is Thomas Shelby." She did her best not to let the disgust show on her face: the very thought of Tommy annoyed her, but the idea of marrying him? That was nearly too much to process.

She watched Grace's reaction carefully, waiting to see how she responded to the use of the Shelby name. Suddenly, she was very focused on finding a rag with which to wipe down the bar, even though Trixie couldn't see anyone who had spilled anything recently. It was still a hunch; maybe she'd heard of Tommy since her arrival but was only reacting because of the reputation he maintained. Or maybe she'd come here _for_ the Shelbys. Either way, it was clear that they couldn't trust her.

Trixie took a long sip of her coffee, enjoying the burn against her tongue. "Thank you for the coffee," she said. "If you'll excuse me."

"Right, um…" Grace trailed off. "It's just...you didn't pay."

"Harry?" Trixie called, holding Grace's nervous eyes. "How much for the coffee?"

"On the house, Miss Price," Harry answered immediately. "Send my best to Polly and the rest, yeah?"

"Always, Harry," she returned, standing from the chair and collecting her purse. "Nice to meet you, Grace," she saluted.

"You too, Miss Price," the woman responded, still sounding slightly confused. The nod she sent Trixie looked almost like a bow. She tried not to smile at it. Though she loathed to be associated with Tommy in most cases, the free coffee she'd earned through her association with the Peaky Blinders was a perk. Polly would have Harry's head if Trixie complained. It was a power she tried to abuse in moderation. And anyway—Grace would learn soon enough of the type of service Trixie expected.

Outside, Trixie pulled another cigarette from her purse and walked hastily towards 5 Watery Lane. She should've known that eventually, their behavior would catch up to them. They couldn't pay off the cops forever, but they had certainly tried. Trouble had come to Birmingham; Arthur was right, but Trixie worried that it hadn't taken the form of a Chief Inspector, but the form of a pretty Irish barmaid.

When she reached the door, signing the cross on the way in as always, she marched straight to Polly's office and threw the door open.

"Dear God," Polly cried, already grabbing her gun and pointing it in Trixie's direction. "You scared me half to death," she admonished, dropping the weapon and setting it back down on the desk with a heavy thud.

"I've discovered something," Trixie explained. "Sorry for my entrance," she added.

"Come," Polly invited, gesturing towards the chair. "Sit down."

Trixie followed her instructions and sat down, her spine straight and her purse on her lap. "I went to the Garrison for coffee this morning and I found that there's a new barmaid from Ireland. Harry said she arrived yesterday and _insisted_ on working there. She seemed to be making quite an effort to play dumb when I mentioned the Shelby name."

"Huh," Polly mused, after a long moment. "Where in Ireland is she from?"

"Harry says Galway," Trixie responded. "But she didn't have a good answer for why she'd come here. Just that she wanted to live in a city."

"Nobody wants to live in _this_ city," said Polly.

"Exactly," Trixie agreed. "I think she may be working with him. The Chief Inspector, I mean. Perhaps as some sort of spy? I'm not entirely sure, but I think we need to be careful when it comes to her."

Polly nodded slowly, leaning back in her chair. "Well, alright," she agreed. "You want to watch her?"

"I mean, I could," Trixie said. "I could try to give her information and see what happens with it. But only if you think that's the best plan."

"I'll talk it over with Tommy," Polly agreed. Trixie smothered a sigh, which drew a smirk from the older woman. "He mentioned that the quarrel went well," she shared, changing the subject.

"Is that what he said?" Trixie drawled, unimpressed. "I'd be quick to disagree."

The knowing smile on Polly's lips cooled Trixie's frustration. "I _should_ say that he found it believable. _Well_ may not be the right word." She leaned forward, putting her elbows on the desk. "He says you didn't apologize for the fight."

At that, Trixie broke down and snorted out a laugh. "Apologize for _what,_ exactly? He's the one who nearly threw me into the canal by my neck."

"Well," said Polly. "That _does_ seem unnecessary."

"It was," Trixie assured her. "He just likes the attention."

"Quite the contrary," Polly disagreed. "You're right about Tommy often, you know, but this is one of those times where I have to say you've assessed him incorrectly. Tommy doesn't do anything for _flair_ unless it's deliberate."

Trixie took a drag of her cigarette and blew out the smoke. "So why did he nearly throw me into the canal? Was that deliberate?"

Polly shrugged. "Depends on who was around to see it."

This wasn't how she wanted Polly to respond to her summary of the morning's events, but Trixie didn't bother changing her mind. Polly would do as she pleased, and Trixie was along for the ride. It had done her more harm than good over the last year. She couldn't complain about much, except maybe the rats in her apartment walls.

"Fair enough," she conceded. Though she had no plans to hold it against Polly, she certainly held resentment towards Tommy for the incident. Or—she _thought_ it was resentment. All she knew was that he burned to the touch, and that had to mean anger, right? "I'll head into the parlor, Polly. Will I see you after work?"

"We'll see," said Polly. "Depends on how the day goes."

With a nod, Trixie stood and gathered her things before heading down the hallway towards the parlor. Inside, things were quiet. Numbers had not yet begun rolling in, but when the round of breakfast drinking concluded, they would be sure to see bets in large swathes, especially given Monaghan Boy's excellent performance in the last few races.

As she removed her gloves, Trixie almost hesitated. She had been touched that morning, for the first time in over a year—by Tommy, no less. It felt wrong to know all that and still bare her hands for the workday.

Despite the guilt, she slipped the gloves off, trying to discreetly press her fingers into the side of her neck, where Tommy's own hand had been not long ago. Her own skin didn't burn like his. Somehow, the feeling was almost...disappointing?

 _No,_ Trixie scolded herself. She wasn't disappointed by the absence of Tommy; she would _never_ be disappointed by the absence of Tommy. It wasn't worse without the burn.

It just wasn't quite the same, either.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: hello everyone thank you so much for reading! as i mentioned before, we are going to be going a bit au but i do love grace so i will be doing my best to honor and respect her character even though she won't be tommy's love interest in this story.
> 
> anyway, if you feel so inclined, please leave a comment letting me know what you thought of the tommy/trixie and grace/trixie scenes in this chapter :) also thanks to all those who reviewed the last two chapters wowza ! the response to this fic has been so wonderful i am so grateful for all of you <3
> 
>  **Chapter Three** / _Various Storms & Saints_
> 
> "I'm Inspector Campbell," the man said, sitting beside Trixie in the church pew and interrupting her Hail Mary. "I heard you were having some problems with your husband, and I wanted to make you an offer."
> 
> Beneath her veil, Trixie struggled to suppress a smile. "Fiancé," she corrected. "But you were right when you said we're having problems."


	4. A Silent Prayer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I have a gift for you," Tommy said, his voice flat and clearly unhappy with the news he was sharing. From his pocket, he produced a box, black velvet on the outside, and inside—a ring. It looked beautiful—it looked expensive, and Trixie felt her jaw drop open the slightest bit at the sight of it. "Are you going to wear it or not?"
> 
> "Did Polly put you up to this?" she countered.
> 
> He paused, looking down at his shoes for a moment and then back up at her. "Yes."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there is heavy discussion of religion in this chapter, specifically about catholicism. obviously there's a lot of discussion of religion on the show in a more political sense, but i go a bit into trixie's personal religious identity so please be warned if that may make you uncomfortable.
> 
> listen to this chapter’s soundtrack [here.](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1o9EOLDLVTawKrseqJeToT?si=e-e_Zd_gQZ-FdylRAK_6sA)

_ “ _ _ Beware of false prophets, who come to you in sheep's clothing, but inwardly are ravening wolves.”  _ -Matthew 7:15

It had been a long day at the parlor, and Trixie's wrists were aching by the time her lunch break rolled around. She usually worked through it, or ate lunch brought from home with one hand while counting with the other, but she hadn't been able to make herself food thanks to Tommy's earlier intrusion. So, as she watched Arthur duck out early from the office, his bottle of whiskey in his pocket catching a beam of light and throwing it across the room, she followed suit, standing and excusing herself.

Outside, it was another frigid day in this nightmare of a city. Trixie envied anyone who had a place they called home. Every day of her life she walked a thin wire, and she'd never been able to relax. Even now, with Tommy's plan and Polly's orders bouncing around her brain, she couldn't fathom the idea of sitting down long enough to eat. So, she did as her father had always instructed in the face of uncertainty. She went to pray.

The church her father had managed was on the other side of the city—and thank God for it. Trixie still couldn't bring herself to pass by without tearing up, the memories of her father still fresh in her mind, and the guilt at how she'd most certainly disappointed him weighing heavy on her shoulders. No, Trixie found her way to the Shelbys' usual stomping grounds, Saint Catherine's. With all the business that had been conducted inside, it was barely holy ground anymore, but her father had taught her that God was everywhere. Including here.

Inside, the ornate tiles and wall carvings drew her eye towards the Body of Christ at the altar; this was familiar. This was simple. This was easy in a way nothing else was. Through the black lace of her veil, the room felt smaller and less grand. Trixie spent all her days with men who liked to play god, bearing witness to their theatrics. Here, it was real.

Ducking her head reverently, Trixie swept into the first pew and sat down. The church was abandoned now; not many people came to pray on a weekday at noon, especially not in a city like this. She was glad for it—it was hard for her to focus when she knew she was being watched.

What was she even to pray for? _Dear Lord, please assure that this criminal operation runs smoothly so that I may buy myself a nice hat at the end of it_ didn't quite seem appropriate. _Dear Lord, give me the strength to lie to the new copper in town so that Tommy Shelby can get away with becoming a merchant of death_ wasn't right either. She blew out a breath. Maybe she shouldn't have come here at all. Maybe she'd been wrong about God being found in all places. If He had been, what was she doing in this mess? _Surviving._

Trixie thought of her father. He could've sought help from the witch doctors, she supposed, and maybe then he would still be alive. But he had died true to his beliefs. He had sacrificed himself for his morals, and Trixie had gotten the whole thing backwards. Maybe at this point it would be better for her to start dedicating prayers to the Devil.

"Excuse me, my dear."

Trixie's eyes flew open, and she glanced over to the aisle. Waiting for her was a stout man in a bowling cap and a neatly pressed suit. His accent was distinctly Irish. She did the math and stood up. "Hello," she greeted, her voice quiet. Trixie hadn't expected him to find her so quickly. Only a few hours had passed since her fight with Tommy at the canal.

"My name is Chester Campbell," he introduced. "Chief Inspector. And you're Beatrice Price?"

"Yes," said Trixie, feigning ignorance. "Is there—is there some sort of problem?"

He looked off at something behind her, as if searching for the correct answer. "There has been a bit of trouble, but I'm actually here to check up on you. I heard you got into an argument with your husband earlier."

"Fiance," she corrected, thinking back to the lie she'd told Grace. "But yes, we did have an argument this morning."

"I heard it got physical," Campbell remarked. He gestured forward with his hand at the church pew, and Trixie moved down to make room for him to sit next to her. "Did he hurt you?"

"Oh, no," she answered. "Tommy's got a bit of a temper, but he's not—he wouldn't hurt me on purpose. He was just trying to scare me."

"For what?"

"Um," said Trixie. "That's a bit personal."

"Forgive me," he said, bracing his hands on the front of the pew. "Tell me, Beatrice. Do you feel afraid of him?"

"No," she said immediately, and then remembered the lie she was supposed to be telling. "Oh—well, sometimes. But he means well, I think. He's just haunted by the war. You know. The violence."

Inspector Campbell shifted uncomfortably. "I've heard stories."

Trixie narrowed her eyes. So he hadn't fought then? That was a funny bit of history for the man here on behalf of the country. "Right," she said. "Well, he's just paranoid. He's not a bad man."

"I beg to differ," he said. "Do you know what your fiance does?"

She shrugged, looking down at her gloved hands. "Business," she answered simply. "He's a businessman."

"Are you aware of the type of business?"

Trixie blew out a breath, and the veil waved in front of her face. She met Campbell's eyes for the first time, and it occurred to her that his face bore a very strong resemblance to that of a pig, with deep-set eyes and bright pink cheeks. Resisting the urge to smile, she shook her head. "I visit him at work from time to time, mostly to spend time with his aunt. She practically took me in after my father died. I've never kept track of the specifics of his affairs, though. It's not my place."

"Do you know his brother?" Campbell asked.

"Can I ask what's happening?" Trixie countered.

Campbell sighed. "There was a robbery that happened recently. A threat to national security. I have reason to believe that the Peaky Blinders were behind it," he said. _So they had been right._ Part of her hoped that Polly and Tommy were just being paranoid, but clearly not. She was in the deep end, now. "Beatrice, you seem like a nice girl. You pray. You work hard. You've good manners."

She bit back a laugh at that.

"I'd hate to see you get caught up in your fiance's mistakes. I can offer you a way out."

"Out?" said Trixie. "What do you mean?"

He dug into his pocket for something, pulling out a business card. "Witness protection," he explained. "If you help us take the Peaky Blinders down, you'd be doing a great service to your country. And we could reward you by helping you start over somewhere new. New York, maybe? Or Boston?"

 _New York._ Trixie tried not to flinch at the words. Before Luca died, he'd promised her New York. She knew it was a fantasy, yes, even when he was alive. He would never save up enough for them to make it, but she always liked to imagine what kind of lives they could've led, far from all this. Maybe she could work for a real business. Maybe he would come home for dinner. Maybe the sky would be blue, even on rare occasions. With Luca, it had been a fantasy. But this detective was making a serious offer.

Maybe before, she would've considered it seriously, as Beatrice Price of Birmingham instead of Beatrice Price, future Mrs. Shelby. Before she met Polly, before she befriended Ada and John, she could've gone along with it. If it was just Tommy, she would've accepted the deal in a heartbeat. Let the bastard rot in prison, or hang. But his family had cared for her, and Trixie was an honorable enough woman to care whether or not they suffered. The Peaky Blinders were all she had, at this point, Tommy included. Luca was dead; her father was gone; nobody else would hire her. She had nothing but the Shelbys—and that made them everything.

But Campbell didn't need to know that she'd grown attached to some of the more troubled members of Small Heath. He just needed to know she was close to them, in proximity and nothing else. So she looked up at him and let herself imagine that it could be real; that this nightmare could end; that there were blue skies somewhere out there, waiting for her.

"New York?" she said. "Really?"

"Anywhere you like," he promised. "We'd find you a new job. Protection. A place to live. I've got friends on that side of the Atlantic who would take good care of you. All you need to do is help me out."

She feigned hesitation. "What if Tommy finds out?" she asked, pulling at the thumb of her glove. "He'd be furious. He'd have my head."

"I will look out for you," he promised. "We can have men on you, to keep you safe."

"No," Trixie exclaimed, before she could help it. She did not need more police officers trailing the Shelbys and their business. "Um—no, that would be too obvious, I think. Perhaps I could meet you, sometimes. And then I could fill you in on anything I've found that may be of use to you."

He nodded, considering it. "Is your husband a man of faith?" he asked her.

"Fiance," she corrected. "And he's the furthest thing from it."

"Then we'll meet here," he said. "Wednesdays, nine o'clock at night. And if you need to get in touch with me sooner—" He pointed at the business card in her hand. "My address is on that. You can stop by my office any time."

Trixie nodded, slowly. "Wednesdays work. Tommy goes to the bar on Wednesdays."

"The Garrison?" he asked.

She tilted her head to the side the slightest bit, before nodding. He knew they went to the Garrison. It only solidified her theory about Grace, and what she was doing in Birmingham. "It's a bit of a rough place," she said, pushing before she could help it. "There's a pretty young blonde working there now, I pity the poor thing."

His reaction was minimal. Trixie frowned.

"The men around here are animals," she added on. "Only whores work in places like those."

Still nothing. Interesting.

"Speaking of the men around here," Campbell redirected. "How close are you to Thomas' brother?"

Trixie thought of John, whose children she frequently babysat and whose wife she had held befriended while he was away at war. Then of Arthur, who was more on the useless side but well-intentioned. And finally, Finn, who she felt some draw to protect from the world, but who she knew she couldn't save. "Which one?" she asked.

"The oldest," Campbell said. "Arthur. We suspect he's in charge of the Peaky Blinders."

It took most of her strength not to burst out laughing at that. Arthur wasn't in charge of anything but the liquor supply and decorating his office. The man struggled to button up his shirt properly. "I saw him this morning," she said. "I was at the office watching over the kids, and I saw him leave early."

"Do you think he's in charge, Miss Price?" Campbell asked, leaning in closer to her so that the side of his shoulder pressed heavily into her own. She didn't flinch.

 _Wrong answers only_ , she reminded herself. "Oh, yes," Trixie replied distantly. "As far as I know, Arthur's the man in charge."

* * *

That afternoon, the Garrison was packed with men in caps who shoved each other around bodily, and Trixie had to squeeze past sideways to find a seat at the bar. "Excuse me," she said to the man on the nearest barstool. "Do you mind if I take a seat?"

"Piss off," he answered, giving her a once-over and a look of disgust before turning back to his conversation.

"Excuse me," Grace interrupted from behind the counter. Trixie raised an eyebrow, and the man looked up, clearly displeased. "She has a reservation."

"Garrison doesn't take reservations," he retorted, brushing her off.

"Well," said Grace, snatching the glass in front of him away. Her face grew nervous, but she made a clear effort to stand her ground. "We do now, and she has one."

"It's true," Trixie added. "It should be under the name Shelby?"

The man looked back and forth between them, before heaving a sigh and moving off the chair. Trixie took his spot delicately, smiling at Grace. It had been a nice gesture, even if it had been with bad intentions.

"Thank you," she said.

Grace nodded. "I don't usually tell off the customers." Then, responding to shouting from the other end of the bar, she retrieved a bottle from the back shelf and a glass, filling it halfway and sliding it over to him.

"But you'd be right to," said Trixie, when Grace had returned. "Especially on a day like this."

"Do you happen to know why it's so busy?" she asked.

"Football game in St. Andrews," Trixie replied. "No alcohol is allowed on the premises, so they do all their drinking beforehand." Though she'd never found sports interesting—or at least, sports that weren't being fixed in her favor—John had always been a fan, and she'd caught on through her conversations with him.

"They're all fans?" Grace asked.

Trixie shrugged. "Some of them. The rest are players."

"Drinking before a game?" Her voice lifted, appalled.

"Welcome to Birmingham," Trixie said simply. "Can I have a gin, please?"

Grace nodded, grabbing a bottle and pouring Trixie a glass. Mostly, she'd ordered so she would have an excuse to stick around and make conversation—though, if Grace thought people would believe she wanted to spend time in a place like this, maybe she would believe the same lie from Trixie. "It's a place like no other, isn't it?" she remarked. Trixie sipped from her glass. "I've never seen so much happening at once."

"Aren't you from Galway?" Trixie asked. "There's a lot going on there, or else the papers are lying."

"My life was always quiet," she replied simply. Another customer flagged her down, and she abandoned Trixie for a moment to grab him a drink. When she returned, she leaned against the counter and shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Trixie didn't envy her—being on her feet all day sounded dreadful.

"Well, there's a lot happening in Birmingham," Trixie conceded. "Little of it is good."

"What does that mean?" Grace asked.

Trixie rotated her wrist gently, watching the gin in her glass swim in circles, before taking a slow, careful sip. It felt like Grace was asking several questions; but then again, so was she. Here they were both—inquisitor and interrogated. Both had what the other wanted, and both seemed willing to give up some leverage. Trixie needed to play her cards right. "It's a bit violent, at times," she responded simply.

"And you're not afraid?"

"I grew up here," said Trixie, as though that explained anything.. "I know this city well."

"Maybe you could show me around," Grace said, laughing the slightest bit.

Matching it with a smile, Trixie answered, "Of course. Anything to make you feel welcome."

This sparring proved harder than she expected; it was like trying to strike her own reflection while also dodging its hit. She smiled over a sip of her drink, and then leaned back in the chair, drawing her shoulders up high and confident. The men around them jostled and jumped, yelling all the way, but it seemed to grow quieter. All she could focus on was Grace, and what they were telling each other. Trixie knew this was a hunt of some sort, but she couldn't tell if she was the predator or the prey.

"Hello!"

Both women broke away, turning towards the side window that led into the Shelbys' private lounge. Tommy stood waiting, his messy hair visible without the cap to cover it. She may have imagined it, but she thought she noticed the smear of her lipstick still on his breast pocket from when she'd collided into him earlier that morning.

"Whatever it is, it's on the house," Harry mumbled to Grace, still loud enough for Trixie to hear over the sound of the rowdy crowd.

"I need a bottle of rum," Tommy ordered. He shot a wary look at Trixie, and she gave him a plasticky grin in response.

"White or dark?" Grace asked.

"I don't care," Tommy said.

While Grace busied herself with the bottle, Tommy met Trixie's eyes, unflinching as always.

"Have you had a good morning?" she asked him sweetly. He said nothing, just pulled a bill out of his wallet and left it on the bar for Grace to pick up when she delivered him the bottle. "Darling," Trixie goaded.

"Harry says it's on the house," Grace interrupted, setting the bottle down gingerly. Tommy tucked it under his arm.

"Are you a whore?" he asked casually, pocketing his wallet.

Trixie furrowed a brow. Meanwhile, Grace reeled back the slightest bit at the question, her mouth falling open in surprise. It wasn't like Trixie could blame her; she didn't know why asked this question so frequently and never with any warning.

"Because if you're not," Tommy added, "You're in the wrong place."

It took everything Trixie had to restrain the look of contempt; whether or not Grace was a spy, she was growing quite sick of Tommy's incessant rudeness.

"You," Tommy demanded, pointing to Trixie. "Let's go."

She rolled her eyes and stepped down from the barstool. "Isn't he romantic?" she asked Grace, before grabbing her coat and her purse. The blonde smiled tightly, still in shock. "Thanks for the gin, Grace. Let me know when you want the tour, yeah?"

Grace nodded, and Trixie took that as enough permission to leave. Looping her hand through the strap of her purse, she rounded the corner and, for the second time that day, collided directly with Thomas Shelby.

"Tell me," she greeted. "Do you ask every woman you meet if she's a whore, or is that only on special occasions?"

"Special occasions," Tommy answered wryly. She was surprised he'd answered at all. Usually, he ignored her or insulted her when she bothered to speak. Rarely did he engage enough to take her seriously. Even if he had acknowledged her, he kept his back to her and his eyes ahead as he led her out of the Garrison and onto the street. The cold wind was refreshing against the musk and heat of all those bodies inside the bar.

"Are you planning to throw me back into the Cut?" she asked him dryly, slowing to a stop when he paused on the corner of the street. "Or are we going somewhere else?"

"Take off your gloves," Tommy ordered.

On instinct, Trixie pocketed her hands. "Why?" she demanded.

"I have a gift for you," he said, his voice flat and clearly unhappy with the news he was sharing. From his pocket, he produced a box, black velvet on the outside, and inside—a ring. It looked beautiful—it looked _expensive_ , and Trixie felt her jaw drop open the slightest bit at the sight of it. "Are you going to wear it or not?"

"Did Polly put you up to this?" she countered.

He paused, looking down at his shoes for a moment and then back up at her. "Yes."

She scoffed. "I don't think we need a ring to prove the engagement," she insisted. "Just keep hanging me over the river by a thread and everyone will know we're in love."

"You were safe," he retorted, clearly bored with her antics.

Trixie yanked the glove off. "Fine," she conceded, slipping off the engagement ring Luca had given her and replacing it with Tommy's—shinier, brighter, newer. It felt like a betrayal, but she wasn't about to tell Tommy that. He held her wrist sturdy in his hand, rough and calloused but still surprisingly warm. Something about the touch made Trixie forget she had a body outside of where his skin met hers. _It's just new,_ she assured herself. _It's just been a while._ When he was through, he dropped her hand carelessly and it fell back against her side. The moment vanished, snapped in half.

"I'll take that," he offered, gesturing to Luca's ring, clutched in her other hand.

"No you will _not,"_ she dismissed, dropping it into her purse and clicking the clasp in place. The ring would probably sell for nothing, but it was the most valuable thing she owned. It was going nowhere near Thomas Shelby.

He examined her carefully, as though he was waiting for her to elaborate, or maybe looking for answers to questions he wouldn't ask. "Keep the gloves off unless it's cold," he instructed, after a long moment of silence had stretched out between the two of them. "Keep the ring on."

"Right," she said, nodding once. "Ring on. I think I can manage that."

"Heard anything from the Inspector?" he asked her, turning so his back was to the brick wall of the pub's exterior and pulling a cigarette from his pocket.

"Give me one," Trixie said. Tommy fixed her with a surprised look, but said nothing. Bypassing her waiting hand, he placed it between her lips delicately. She thought of Communion, when the Priest would place the Body of Christ into her mouth.

"Can't scuff up the ring," he explained.

She hadn't known that was a thing. She'd been smoking and wearing Luca's ring for over a year, now. Was that why it was in such bad condition? Was it another thing she'd ruined?

Tommy struck a match and lit her cigarette first. After a drag, she said, "He came to see me today."

"Where?"

"Church."

Tommy laughed. Trixie nearly shuddered. "And?" he prompted.

"He looks rather like a pig," she admitted. "But he also offered me a deal if I sell him information."

"The parameters?" Tommy asked.

 _New York,_ she wanted to say, but Tommy already had enough reasons not to trust her. She didn't need to add to it that the Inspector's offer had been personally appealing to her, especially if she had no plans to take it. The line of his brows was tight and pensive as he waited. "Protection," she said simply. "From my big, _scary_ fiance."

"Good," he said, unmoved. "And did you happen to mention anything to him about Arthur?"

Trixie blew out a cloud of smoke. "That he was in charge, yeah. Polly told me to send him towards dead ends. Why?"

"Because," said Tommy. "Arthur was picked up from the movie theater earlier by a group of coppers who then attempted to beat details of the robbery out of him."

The tone with which he said it was so nonchalant that Trixie nearly missed what he was saying. " _What?"_ she cried, dropping the cigarette on the pavement and stomping it out. Before Tommy could answer, she turned and began hurrying towards the Shelby home. This was bad—this meant she had failed. No wonder Tommy was playing along with her jokes—this was all leading up to her being either exiled or executed as penance for what she'd done.

The sidewalk fell back heavy against her heels as she rushed down the Lane, Tommy catching up again easily. She had enough dignity not to run, and now, that dignity might be all she had left.

She threw the door open heavily, forgetting her usual sign of the cross and marching down the hallway towards Polly's office. Sprawled out across the desk chair, Arthur looked like hell. His face was beaten and bloodied, Polly was kneeling at his side to wrap his fingers, and his suit looked as though it had been soaked through with sweat.

"Dear God," she gasped, faltering at the doorway. " _Arthur_."

"Trixie," he greeted, nodding at her as though nothing had happened. "Nice to see you."

Tommy brushed past her, handing the bottle of rum to Arthur and seizing a bloodied cloth from the bowl on the table. He pushed it against Arthur's face, and the older Shelby hissed in response. "You're okay," Tommy mumbled, his voice heavy with an unnatural amount of affection.

"Polly," Trixie said, already prepared to grovel. "I am so sorry. He just asked me if Arthur was in charge."

Polly stood up and took Trixie's hands into her own. "You did the right thing. Better to send them to Arthur at the movies than to John or me at the parlor. The least damage was done. He doesn't know anything."

"But—" Trixie started, gesturing generally at his beaten form.

"He didn't know anything," Polly assured her firmly. "He couldn't have given them anything. And anyway," she continued, her voice growing louder, "Arthur seemed to have collected some information on the new Inspector, isn't that right?"

Arthur looked up, his cheeks jutting out under Tommy's grip and making him look slightly ridiculous. "He said Mr. Churchill sent him to Birmingham." He sat back, eyes sliding shut. "National interest, he said. Something about a robbery."

His words were laced with bitterness; clearly, he believed the Inspector's reason for coming to town. Arthur was easygoing and simpleminded, mostly, but like John had said—he didn't like being emasculated. Especially by Tommy.

Trixie's heart was still racing in her chest, adrenaline leftover from the fear that Tommy's words had struck her with, and she leaned back against the banister of the staircase, taking a moment to catch her breath.

"He says he wants us to help him," Arthur continued.

"We don't help coppers," John objected.

Ada stuck out her hand, gesturing towards Trixie's coat. She shrugged it off and handed it to her gratefully. While Ada went to hang it on the rack by the door, Arthur announced, "He knew all about our war records."

The three women shared a glance. The war was a sensitive subject for most everyone, but it was explosive in the hands of the Shelby brothers.

"He wants us to be his eyes and ears. Says we're patriots, just like him," Arthur continued.

"He's not," Trixie interrupted. "I mean—he might love his country, I don't know, but I don't believe he served."

Polly eyed her. "How do you know?"

"He said he'd heard _stories_ of the war's severity," she recalled. "Not that he'd seen it, or knew it. I don't think he fought."

Tommy glanced at Trixie, and then back at Arthur, waiting for him to continue recounting the events of his captivity. Or, more likely, waiting for Arthur to reveal whether or not he'd conceded to the Inspector's terms. She didn't realize when she'd begun holding her breath, but Trixie exhaled slowly, trying to disturb the room as little as possible.

"And?" Tommy prodded.

"And I said we'd have a family meeting," said Arthur. As per usual, he rolled over and deferred to Tommy. "And take a vote."

Though he remained quiet, the line of Tommy's eyebrows drew tight. Clearly, he was displeased with the answer.

"Why not?" Arthur asked, his voice edging on panic or frustration or both. "We have no truck with Fenians or communists. What's wrong with you?" He turned to John. "What the fuck is wrong with him lately?"

Maybe it was a good thing that she'd let him get captured. She doubted he could sell them out if he tried.

"If I knew," Polly said, sending a look of warning in Tommy's direction. "I'd buy the cure from Compton's chemists."

Beside her, Ada snorted. Trixie bit back a smile. The situation was severe, she knew, and quite grave, but Ada's laugh was contagious.

"Let's give the boys some space," Ada offered, looping her arm through Trixie's and leading her out to the living room. Before, during the war, Trixie and Ada hadn't needed to take sidebars away from the men. The two of them and Polly _were_ the Peaky Blinders. When the Shelby brothers came back, Trixie was forced back onto the edge, teetering constantly between danger and safety. "How have you been, Trix?" asked Ada.

"Not so bad," she replied, more habit than honesty. "Have you heard about the engagement?"

Ada snickered. "It'll be the wedding of the century, won't it?"

Trixie rolled her eyes. "I'd be dead before I'd be _Missus Shelby."_ After a beat, she added, "No offense towards you, of course."

Waving her away, Ada shrugged. "Tommy's ridiculous," she said. "I wouldn't take him personally."

"It's kind of difficult to take it _impersonally_ ," Trixie reminded her. "He tried to throw me into the Cut this morning." She thought about what he'd told her outside the Garrison. _You were safe._ The words were kind and reassuring, but he'd said it with such disdain that it felt like an insult nevertheless.

"Are you serious?" asked Ada. "Why?"

Trixie shrugged. "We were supposed to have an argument."

She shifted in the chair, crossing her legs over the armrest sloppily and looking up at Trixie. "Who won?"

"I think we both lost," said Trixie.

Across from her, Ada laughed. "You know Tommy hates to lose," she said.

She glanced back at the closed door of the office where, inside, Tommy was inevitably recalculating his path to power, as he had been every day since he arrived back home in Birmingham. "I know," said Trixie, thinking of Tommy's cold eyes. "So do I."

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading again! Let me know what you thought of this chapter :) Next up, we have a very heavy Tommy/Beatrice chapter that I'm very excited about. I'll see you all then !
> 
> **Chapter Four**  
>  _Red Right Hand_
> 
> "There's not supposed to be singing at the Garrison anymore," Tommy said, his jaw tight as he nursed a glass of rum.
> 
> Trixie rolled her eyes. "Must you complain about everything?"
> 
> Fixing her with a glare, he remarked, "You'd make a horrible wife."
> 
> "Believe me," Trixie replied, beaming sweetly and holding up her ring. "I know."


	5. Red Right Hand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listen to this chapter’s soundtrack [here.](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5kB2yxhyVkZxyXdxCXkghK?si=csfB2YpzTUWZBF5RovmR9Q)

_ “ _ _ Whoever conceals his transgressions will not prosper, but he who confesses and forsakes them will obtain mercy.”  _ -Proverbs 28:13

In the days since Tommy had bestowed the ring upon her, Trixie had grown more or less fascinated with the gesture. He was cold as ever towards her, but it felt different. Less and less, he made snide comments about her being a woman, her status as an outsider, her presence at family meetings. Instead, he pretended she didn’t exist. Trixie couldn’t figure out if it was better or worse. 

Since Arthur’s interrogation, Polly insisted that Trixie remain close by Tommy’s side. He walked her to work, a tight smile on his face, and then home after the fact, looking equally miserable. As far as routines went, at least Trixie was somewhat comforted to have someone walking with her at night—a woman alone in Birmingham was fair game, but a woman with a Shelby by her side was not to be trifled with. 

On this particular night, Trixie was double-checking the locks on the money boxes when Tommy all but tossed her coat at her and simply ordered, “Garrison.” She shrugged the jacket on, reaching for her gloves and purse and stumbling over herself to catch up. Her hands shot out instinctively, landing firmly on Tommy’s bicep as she caught herself. 

At the contact, he yanked his arm away from her, a hand going to the gun she knew he kept inside his coat. Trixie stood up straight and leaned back, putting her hands out in front of her. Tommy was annoying, yes, but reaching for his gun—that was irrational. Thomas Shelby was anything but. 

“I tripped,” she explained, forcing her voice to stay even. 

He seemed alarmed even by his own movements, putting his hands up to match her. “Sorry,” he said after a moment, one hand going to push his hair back and the other straightening his coat. “I’m sorry.” 

_This_ was the worst, actually. Trixie had never considered the possibility that Tommy would ever be nice to her, but it left her feeling awkward and at a loss for how to react. Apologizing wasn’t in his nature. Just like it wasn’t in hers. 

“Why are we going to the Garrison?” she asked, trying to push them back into familiar territory. Strategy. Routine. 

Tommy pulled his cap from his coat pocket and flipped it on over his head. “Need a drink.” 

“Well why am _I_ going?” she amended. “Men don’t take their women to the bar.” 

He rolled his eyes. “Because it would be improper for me to send you home alone, and I don’t want to walk all the way back to your apartment and back.” 

“Fine,” she conceded. He pushed the door to the betting parlor open and they stepped out onto the street. Trixie blinked out at her city, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. It was always rough here, but when Birmingham’s shadows stretched out over the entire city and bathed it in darkness, the worst parts of Trixie’s world began to feel less like fables and more like reality. Already she could spot a fight, and a man soliciting a prostitute, and in the distance, a woman being harassed on her way home. 

Tommy either didn’t notice or didn’t care, because he was halfway across the street by the time Trixie thought to catch up to him. She took her time this time, careful not to trip for fear of prompting another less-than-friendly reaction from him. “Would you ever leave here?” he said suddenly. 

She arched an eyebrow. “Birmingham?” He nodded. “No. Why?” 

“We know nothing about you,” he muttered, his eyes still straight ahead of him. “And Polly still trusts you. I don’t understand why.” 

“ _You_ know nothing about me,” she corrected. “Don’t forget that John is my friend.” 

“John’s a poor judge of character,” Tommy dismissed. 

Trixie grabbed onto his sleeve and stopped walking. If she’d been smart about it, she would’ve noticed the man taking a piss further into the sidewalk before making the decision to freeze up, but she was too focused on Tommy to take it into consideration. The sideways glance he sent towards the man let Trixie know that he was all too aware of their audience. She ignored it. “Who am I going to betray you for, Tommy?” 

He stepped in closer to her. Through the stench of urine and cigarettes, she caught a whiff of his cologne. “Whose ring do you wear?” 

She glanced down at her hands, at the expensive band he’d given her, and then back up at him. “Yours, _dearest_.” 

“Before. The one you wouldn’t let me take.” 

Oh. Trixie rolled her eyes and settled her gaze at a point in the distance over his shoulder. “Does it matter?” The memories of Luca were all she had left now, especially without his ring on her finger. She’d be damned if she let those be ruined too. “He’s a ghost now.” 

She willed her eyes back to his and found him staring at her—not challengingly, though, like he usually did. This time, his face remained purposefully blank. Like he was masking a more genuine reaction. 

“Let’s go,” she said, her voice clipped, as she brushed past him in the direction of the pub. A gust of wind bit at her face. She folded her arms over her chest and walked faster. 

“What was his name?” Tommy asked, catching up with long, even strides. 

“That’s none of your concern,” she replied. 

“I think it is my concern, seeing as we’re engaged.” 

“No,” she refused. “I know that everything to you is political, Tommy Shelby, and that you wouldn’t know love if it took the form of a train and ran you over, but this is the one thing in the world that you cannot take just because you want it.” 

He was quiet for a long moment, the clicking of her heels echoing off the brick walls of the buildings they passed. When he didn’t speak, she began to worry that she’d crossed a line. Maybe he was going to have her thrown out. Maybe he was going to exile her from the city. All the worst possibilities came suddenly to mind, but she refused to take back her words. She had meant what she said, and if it meant she had to endure the painful silence as they made their way into the bar, it was a hill she was willing to die on. 

Tommy pulled the door to the Garrison open, and Trixie swept inside, shrugging off her coat and holding it over her arm. He didn’t offer to take it. It was fine—she hadn’t expected him to. 

Something odd was happening within the pub’s doors. Music. The sound of a woman’s voice drifted out sweet and heavy like honey. While Trixie was pleasantly surprised, she looked up at Tommy to find him seething. Was it because of what she’d said? Or was it because of the song? 

“ _The boy I love is up in the gallery….”_

She pushed the door open, wondering what had made him so furious. The tune was plain but it wasn’t bad—and neither was the woman singing. After a quick scan of the room, Trixie found that it was Grace, stood atop a table as a crowd of men glowing with drunken joy sang along. 

“There’s not supposed to be singing in the Garrison anymore,” Tommy said, and the piano accompaniment dropped off. 

Trixie rolled her eyes, forgetting that some of his anger may have been reserved for her, too. “Must you complain about everything?” 

Fixing her with a glare, he remarked, “You’d make a horrible wife.” 

“Believe me,” Trixie replied, beaming sweetly and holding up her ring with delight. “I know.” 

“C’mon,” he muttered, taking Trixie’s hand and dragging her through the crowd, which parted like the red sea for Tommy. Even as the crowd’s voices died down, Grace kept singing, looking confused but not necessarily afraid. Tommy’s fingers loosened after a moment, as if giving her the opportunity to drop her hand. Still, she held on. 

Grace’s song finished, and she was met with dead silence. Trixie guessed that it wasn’t the reaction she’d hoped for when she climbed atop that table. 

They came to a sudden stop at the door leading back to the Shelby’s corner of the bar. Then, cautiously, Harry piped up. 

“We haven’t had singing here since the War,” he remarked. 

Tommy dropped Trixie’s hand, staring down at the doorknob before turning out to face the crowd. He brushed the hem of his jacket back as he put his hands on his hips, flashing the pistol on his hip. “And why do you think that is?” 

Trixie didn’t know, but it seemed like Harry should’ve. As Tommy threw the door open, he grabbed her by the waist and corralled her inside, letting it slam shut behind her. 

“Why?” she asked, hovering by the doorway even as he sank down into the booth. 

“Why what?” he asked, irritated. 

“Why isn’t there singing in the Garrison?” 

He blew out a breath, and stood up instead of answering, going to the window that led back to the bar. “Whiskey,” he demanded, and within a few moments, Grace was bustling around to retrieve a bottle for him. 

“Here you go, Mister Shelby,” she said. 

Tommy dropped a few bills on the counter and slammed the window shut. Trixie watched as he pulled the cork from the bottle with his teeth and drank directly from it. She waited. After another long moment, he sat down in the booth and shrugged off his jacket. 

She was almost afraid to sit across from him; he seemed to be in a mood that would only improve if left alone, and she had a habit of picking at scabs. Still, she slid into the booth across from him and folded her coat on the spot next to her, resting her purse atop it. 

“Greta Jurossi,” he said finally, setting the bottle down with a _plunk_ that warped as the whiskey inside swirled around the neck. 

“Greta Jurossi?” Trixie asked. “Was she a horrible singer, or…” 

He lifted a finger to cut her off, and she begrudgingly clicked her jaw shut. “I know love,” he said, and Trixie sat back for a moment before snatching the bottle from him and taking one large gulp of whiskey. Her throat burned and tears sprang to her eyes, but she blinked them away, determined not to let Tommy see her weak. 

As she slid the bottle back across the table, he seized onto it, but didn’t drink, just held it in a white-knuckled grip. 

“What are you doing with me, then?” she asked. 

He bristled. “She’s a ghost too.” 

Trixie swallowed. “I’m sorry,” she said, because she didn’t know what else she could offer him that would be of any comfort, and even then, she wasn’t sure if he totally deserved it. 

“Consumption,” he said simply, leaning back. His eyes grew glassy as he stared down the barrel of the bottle. 

“Consumption killed my father,” she admitted, without knowing why. He shouldn’t have been privy to any of this information. She’d barely told Polly about her father, and John knew nothing about Luca. Yet here she was, offering up her backstory to Tommy Shelby for free. 

“It took her three months to die,” Tommy said. She wanted another drink, but he seemed to be using its physical space as some kind of crutch, so she waited instead of saying anything. “I sat by her bed for three months.” 

“Devotion,” said Trixie, without knowing what she meant by it. 

He nodded. “Yes.” 

“Why are you telling me this?” she wondered. 

“You asked,” he dismissed. 

“Right,” she said. “If you’re in a particularly chatty mood, can I ask why you went for your gun earlier?” 

Tommy’s eyes sank shut, and she decided that now was as good a time as any to get that next drink. She grabbed the bottle by its body and gave a gentle tug; he let go easily. This time, it went down smoother, but she still had to blink the burn out of her eyes. 

It struck her then that Tommy was sitting across from her, eyes closed, letting her hold onto a nearly full glass bottle. If she wanted to, she could’ve swung it across his head. If she tried hard enough, she could knock him out clean. But she didn’t want to—so either he was counting on that, or he was more aware than he was currently letting on. Was that trust? In the sharp line of his cheekbone and the dark circles beneath his eyes? Was he trying to tell her something? 

“Habit,” he mumbled, still not opening his eyes. Faintly, she wondered if it had to do with sudden touch by another, or sudden touch by her. 

“Are you tired?” she asked, mostly to be annoying. 

“Always,” he responded. It wasn’t what she had expected. 

She huffed. If he wanted to trust her, she could throw him enough of a bone to keep him happy and keep her with a roof over her head. “I was born here. My mother escaped Korea before the Japanese invasion and moved here. My father was the son of an educated Trinidadian missionary,” she admitted. “My mother died in childbirth and my father died last year. He was a priest. I have no siblings.” 

“My father was a gambler,” Tommy returned. “He was supposed to take care of us after mum died, but he ran off when Finn started talking.” 

“Do you see him?” 

Tommy shrugged. “Sometimes he needs money.” 

It was a cruel thought, but Trixie felt some relief that her father had died a good man rather than lived as a sinner or a scumbag. She wouldn’t know how to say no to him if he asked her for unfair favors. 

“What do you want?” Tommy asked. 

“Want?” said Trixie. Instead of answering, he just nodded and pulled a cigarette from his pocket. She pulled the matchbox from her purse and slid it over to him, watching as he struck one easily and lit the end. Shaking out the flame, he held the box out in her direction. She shook her head. “I’m a woman, aren’t I?” she asked. “I’m not supposed to want things.” 

“That’s rubbish,” he said, so suddenly she nearly spilled her box of matches across the floor. 

“It’s not rubbish,” she insisted. “I’m not meant for wanting.” 

“You’re not meant for the Peaky Blinders, either, and here you are.” He didn’t sound impressed or pleased about it, just waving his cigarette in her direction and sending a spiral of smoke swirling through the air. 

Trixie considered this. Mostly, she just wanted to survive. She wanted to get married maybe, but only by her own choice. Kids came along with that, but she wasn’t particularly excited about the prospect of carrying a baby to term and then having to deliver it, especially not when it was the very thing that had killed her mother. Maybe the old Trixie would have wanted them, but what kind of mother would she be now? 

If she could have it her way, she would spend her days reading under blue skies. “I want a house in the country,” she said finally. “I want to see the sun from time to time and have shelves for books.” 

He blew out a cloud of smoke. “That’s all?” 

“That’s a lot of wanting for someone like me. I’m just an accountant. I have no prospects for marriage in a place like this, and even fewer prospects for love. I’d settle for staying alive.” 

“You’re in the wrong city for love,” he agreed. 

“Why don’t you like me?” she asked him. It wasn’t the sort of question to be spoken aloud, and she’d been raised better than to pry, but they were halfway into the bottle now and she was too confused by the kindness he was directing towards her to stop herself from wondering. “I never did anything to you.” 

Tommy took a long drag, and then washed it down with a healthy swig of whiskey. “You don’t belong here.” 

“Because I’m not a Shelby,” she supplied. It wasn’t a question. 

As she took another drink, he hesitated. “You don’t have it in you to kill.” 

“So I’m weak?” she asked, sliding the bottle back his way. The room was getting fuzzy along the edges of her vision, but she remained determined to match him in each way she could—including the drinking. “You mistake my femininity for gullibility.” 

As though he understood her, he wedged the cork back into the mouth of the bottle. A wave of relief rushed over her. “If someone put a gun to your head and asked you to betray us, what would you do?” he asked. 

“You must _really_ not know me,” Trixie said, her words coming out around a bitter laugh. 

“That’s the problem,” he said, sounding bored by the back and forth. 

“Where would I go?” she asked. “If I survived but I didn’t have Polly. Or John. Or Ada. There’s no house in the countryside, Tommy. It’s a fact I hate almost as much as you do, but my livelihood is inextricably tied to the Peaky Blinders. I’d be better off dead than crossing you.” 

He held her eyes, sturdy and icy, for so long that Trixie would swear the temperature dropped. When she didn’t flinch, he sat back, looking almost pleased with himself. 

“Don’t mistake my debt for respect,” she warned him. “You’re still a bastard.” 

“You’re mean,” he commented, sounding more impressed than upset. “I don’t know who the other man was, but I find it hard to believe you managed to convince him on an engagement.” 

“I wasn’t always like this,” she said. “I’m _not_ always like this.” 

“What were you like?” he asked. If his tone was any clue as to how he felt—bored out of his mind–she didn’t understand why he was bothering asking. If he had just taken her home after work as they always did, he could be blissfully alone by now, and she could be soaking in her tub finishing the last few chapters of _The Age of Innocence._ Instead, they were crammed together in this booth with a bottle of whiskey between them, making small talk, and Trixie still didn’t understand why. 

If anyone put her two “ _fiances”_ side-by-side they could surely spend the rest of eternity listing the differences. Trixie thought about Luca, with his dimples and his olive skin and his dark eyes that felt like home. They’d begun their flirtation after her father’s services; Luca was an altar boy who wore a white robe as he delivered the Eucharist to her father for blessing. He would meet her eyes with the slightest smile, and from her spot in the first pew, she would watch him head down the steps and kneel down on the title to ring a bell. After an Easter service when she was thirteen and he fourteen, as her father provided blessings to other parishioners, he approached her with a pink rose he’d stolen from the altar’s floral display. 

“I’m Luca,” he’d said, holding the rose out. 

“Beatrice,” she’d replied, accepting the rose and not bothering to hide her blush. “I’ve noticed you.” 

“I’ve noticed you too,” he had admitted, beaming warmly. 

The memory tugged at her heart. Trixie missed him so damn much. People like him were never meant for war. Hell—if she’d been able to take his place, she would’ve in a heartbeat. God knew that she would have fared better than a soul as kind as he had been. 

Looking at Tommy after reminiscing about Luca almost caused her physical pain. He was so sharp; so cold and so jarring compared to Luca’s soft, gentle warmth. It was like her chest had frozen into a block of ice after Luca died, and Tommy did nothing but chill her further. “I was happy,” she said to Tommy, unable to meet his eyes. “I was really, _really_ happy.” They were supposed to get married in the spring, and Trixie’s father would officiate the ceremony. A proper church wedding, with rings, and then maybe New York, or somewhere with blue skies. Luca had always wanted a cat. If she’d ever in her life wanted children, it would be with him. They’d have a cat and a baby and no matter how small their apartment was, how heavy the clouds above them clung to the light, how hard they had to work to scrape by, she would’ve been happy. 

Tommy was still as death across from her; in fact, Trixie might’ve actually begun to worry if the smoke cloud billowing out from between his lips didn’t alert her to his vitality. “What are you now?” 

She shrugged. “I’m who I had to become.” 

“But not happy,” he said. 

“No,” she confirmed. “No, I’m not happy. Are you?” 

He pursed his lips as he shook his head. “Can’t remember the last time I was.” 

“At least you’re not alone,” she said. “People love you.” 

“People are _scared_ of me,” he corrected. 

Trixie shook her head. “No,” she said. “No, Polly and John and Finn love you. Even Arthur loves you. And Ada.” He glanced up at her for the briefest moment, before his eyes flitted back down to the table. “I may not understand it, but I can see that they do.” 

He shrugged, as if it was worth nothing, and something furious bubbled up in Trixie’s stomach. After all the love she’d lost—her parents, Luca, Luca’s family—seeing him barely willing to acknowledge all he was fortunate to have made Trixie want to reach across the table and slap him. 

“Sure, they love me,” he agreed. “More important s’that everybody else knows to stay away from me.” 

“No,” she disagreed, shaking her head adamantly. “No, some people don’t love you or fear you.” 

“Then how do they find me?” 

“Some people find you infuriating,” she assured him. “Like me.” 

Tommy ashed what remained of his cigarette and fished the tin back out. Trixie stuck out her hand, and he gave her one. Again, she handed him a match. This time, he leaned forward, using the flame to light both cigarettes at once. 

“Who were you before you were like this?” Trixie asked him, not bothering to hide her disdain. “If you weren’t happy, before.” 

Tommy gave another half-hearted shrug, uncorking the whiskey bottle with his teeth again and taking a slow sip. “Naive,” he answered. At least he was being honest, even if he was determined to remain cagey. 

“I’ve heard stories,” she said. Trixie wasn’t sure if she was baiting him on purpose. 

“Can’t believe everything you hear,” he remarked. 

She thought about Grace on the other side of the wooden paneling. For all they knew, she was listening to their conversation. Had the bar not been packed outside, she would’ve entertained the possibility of the blonde woman eavesdropping, but it was rather logistically impossible on a night like tonight. 

“What do you want?” she asked. “If not love.” 

“Power,” he answered, easily and immediately. “This city’s going to be mine.” 

“And what good is power with nobody to share it with?” 

At her question, he actually seemed to be at a loss for words. Another look that seemed unnatural when painted over his features. 

Trixie pressed on. “Before you throw away all the people who _can_ stand you, you may want to consider what all this ambition is worth.” 

Several beats passed where Tommy said nothing, and Trixie rolled her eyes, holding the cigarette between her lips as she collected her coat and her bag, sticking her arms through the sleeves and pulling it snugly against her back despite the heat of the constant bodies in the Garrison. “Where are you going?” he asked her. 

“I want to go home.” 

He sighed. “Fine,” he said, standing up from the booth and reaching for his own blazer, until Trixie put out a hand to stop him. 

“I’m going alone. Next time you’re in a pissy mood and need a drink, don’t drag me into it, Thomas.” She sent him a final glare, and then shoved her way out the door and through the crowd of drunk men. For once, the slap of cool air that hit her when she burst through the doors was refreshing instead of bitter. Trixie bit down hard on the inside of her cheek. _The nerve of that man!_ She huffed her cigarette angrily and set off towards her home. 

Alone, the shadows grew warped and fiendish, but Trixie didn’t bother looking back over her shoulder. Regret was like apologizing—it just wasn’t in her nature. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: so sorry for the delay with this chapter !! i’m planning on developing a consistent update schedule moving forward (especially so I can figure out how to manage writing when classes begin), so could y’all let me know if you would prefer that i update on fridays or on mondays? and also while you’re there, if you feel so inclined, let me know what you thought about Tommy and Trixie’s conversation, especially Trixie’s backstory. i’ll see you all soon !
> 
>  **Chapter Five** / Out This Late
> 
> “I don’t believe it’s any secret that I’m loyal to Polly first and foremost,” said Trixie. “You’re just an unfortunate side effect of that.” 
> 
> “Okay,” said Tommy. She could sense the parenthetical And…? lingering a the edge of his sentence. 
> 
> “So,” she continued. “I’d like to make a deal.” 


	6. Out This Late

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Should I make it into a contract?” 
> 
> The corner of his mouth quirked up, so slightly she could have imagined it. “A contract wouldn’t do you any good. We can seal it with a kiss, if you want to be formal about it.” 
> 
> Trixie resisted the urge to gag. Had it not been for the look of mutual disgust on his face as he offered the suggestion, she might have felt bad, but as it was, she did not. “Absolutely not.” Trixie stuck her hand out. “You’ll treat me as an equal in ritual if not on paper. Shake my hand, Tommy.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listen to this chapter’s soundtrack [here.](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6Ei1mHhCK61bh0nRsmZirX?si=axXAcK8sTCuKlCW4kR7K_A)

_ “ _ _ While the sons of the kingdom will be thrown into the outer darkness. In that place there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.”  _ -Matthew 8:12

Really, Trixie should’ve seen it coming. 

After all, if memory served true, there hadn’t been a single promise Tommy made that didn’t involve an asterisk, or a conditional, or that he didn’t outright break. It was part of the business, but it had grown exhausting. So when Trixie returned after work to collect the gloves she’d left behind, only to find Arthur throwing things around his office and shouting at nobody in particular while a messenger from the tracks scurried out nervously, it wasn’t difficult to connect the dots. 

Monaghan Boy had won. They wouldn’t collect money from the bets placed—they would have to redistribute it. And though it wasn’t exactly the biggest problem they were dealing with, Trixie wasn’t all too pleased about the idea of working late. 

“Arthur?” she asked, cautious. The rest of the betting shop was abandoned, no doubt due to his outburst, so Trixie was careful to make herself small. 

“It bloody _won,”_ Arthur muttered. 

“The horse,” she finished, not really asking. 

“It _bloody won!”_ he shouted, swiping at a bottle on his desk and sending it shattering on the floor. Trixie jumped back, but did her best to remain calm. “I’m gonna fucking kill Tommy.” 

“No you aren’t,” she disagreed, reaching into her purse for the cigarette tin and pulling one out for him. Booze was Arthur’s medicine of choice, but nicotine didn’t hurt. He accepted the smoke warily, and she followed it with a lit match. As annoyed as she was over the win and what it meant, Trixie knew that Tommy never did anything without being deliberate. Surely, there was some other motive here. That didn’t mean it would be a good one. “Have you asked him about it?” she inquired. 

“He’s on his way here.” Arthur rubbed at his eyes, throwing out curses in rapid succession that culminated in a loud, furious, “ _Fuck!”_

“Fuck?” 

Tommy stood in the doorway of the office, nonchalant as ever. He removed his hat and tucked it under his arm. 

“Monaghan Boy _fucking_ won,” Arthur shouted, lunging for Tommy. Trixie wasn’t exactly sure why she did it, but before she could stop herself, she was jumping forward and blocking Arthur’s way with a firm hand planted on his chest. 

_“Stop it_ ,” she hissed. 

“I thought you were only loyal to him in the eyes of that bloody copper,” Arthur sneered. “Polly told me about your _engagement_.” 

“Shut up,” she snapped. “I don’t want him dead, there’s nothing else to read into it.” Then, mustering the strength she could, Trixie shoved Arthur away and took a step back. He stumbled against his desk, and for a moment, she thought that maybe she was stronger than she’d thought—then, she realized he was probably just drunk. “Explain yourself,” she demanded of Tommy. 

“You don’t give me orders,” he reminded her, sharp and cold. 

Trixie glared at him. “You owe me,” she returned. “There’s a reason you two aren’t brawling right now. Explain.” 

Tommy sighed. “So it won.” 

“ _So it won?”_ Arthur exploded. “Is that it?”

Tommy crossed took a step forward, pocketing his cap and holding his hands out. Almost a peace offering. “Word will spread,” he continued. “So next time we do the powder trick, it won’t just be the Garrison that’ll bet on the horse, it’ll be all of Small Heath. And you know what? The horse will win again.” He took another slow step towards the eldest Shelby, until they were toe-to-toe. “And the third time we do it, we’ll have the whole of Birmingham betting. A thousand quid on the _magic horse_ . And that time, _when we’re ready_ ,” he promised, barely louder than a whisper, “The horse will lose.” 

For a long moment, Trixie wondered if the she was about to witness a murder, and even then, she couldn’t determine who would be Cain and who would be Abel. All Trixie knew was the promise of the history books her father loaned her while she was growing up: most empires collapse when they overexpand. Before, she’d always wondered how people could let themselves be dragged into nations doomed to fail. Did they know? Could they tell the end was coming before it arrived? 

It was all making more sense to her now. 

“Have a drink, Arthur,” Tommy said, smoothing down the shoulders of his brother’s coat. “Think about it.” 

Though Trixie was determinedly immune to whatever charismatic speeches Tommy had to offer, Arthur was looking rather persuaded. This, she knew, was the beginning of the end for her. Arthur was losing control of the races, and being kept out of all the important conversations. Tommy was going to make his strike for power soon, and she was going to be caught in the middle of the gunfire that always seemed to trail power exchanges. The dread formed a pit in her stomach. 

“Are you coming?” Tommy asked her. 

Trixie shook her head. “Have to work late, _thanks_.” 

He shrugged, and she resisted the very strong urge to slap him across the face. As Tommy strolled out, Arthur poured himself a drink and sat down behind the desk. He sipped on the whiskey like a child with a pacifier, suddenly calm. 

She sighed. Though she trusted Arthur more than Tommy, his inability to cling to even one set of principles never failed to grate on her nerves. Like smoke, his anger had dissipated into nothing, and she was the only one left even questioning Tommy’s intentions. 

The money was good. It had to be, because if Tommy was one thing, it was selfish. His schemes were only ever for a profit, apparently. But more money in the short term wouldn’t do her much good if she lost her job in the long run, and even if Tommy had bothered being kind to her a few nights prior at the Garrison, she wasn’t going to count on him to keep her around without anyone forcing it. So she needed to make herself useful. Like she always did. She abandoned Arthur in the office, returning to the main room of the betting parlor and sliding the boxes of money out from the shelves. After wrenching the locks open and pouring the bills and change out onto the table, Trixie sighed and settled down on the bench as she damned herself to a long night at work. 

* * *

Trixie didn’t leave the parlor until it was past one, and by then, she knew it would be stupid to attempt the walk home. Instead, she crossed the street towards the Garrison, where Grace was wiping down the counter. The pub was closed, but the doors hadn’t been locked yet, so she strolled in and took a seat at the bar. 

“We’re closed,” Grace said gently. 

Trixie fixed her with a stare that she meant to be pleading, but likely ended up coming across as more irritated than anything. “I need gin,” she said. 

Wordlessly, Grace abandoned her rag and turned to pick a bottle up off the shelf, matching it with a freshly cleaned glass and filling it nearly to the top. She seemed to understand the mood Trixie was in, at least. “Long day?” Grace asked. 

“Very,” Trixie confirmed, taking a large gulp of her drink and ignoring the sting. “The Shelbys can be quite a lot to deal with.” 

“Really?” Grace asked. 

Trixie knew that this was all part of the game; that Grace didn’t care about her as much as she cared about collecting information on the Peaky Blinders, but it had been years since she’d had the opportunity to rant about the Shelby Brothers to anyone, and complaining about their personalities wasn’t going to be giving anything of value to Campbell. 

“They’ve such massive egos,” she said simply. “I care about them, but it’s like–it’s like sometimes they can’t even see past what they want to realize what they’re doing to other people.” 

“What happened?” Grace asked. 

Trixie waved her away. “Oh, it’s nothing, really. It’s just—little things.” 

“Like what little things?” 

_She’s persistent, I’ll give her that._ Trixie hesitated, choosing her words carefully before saying them. “Tommy and Arthur bicker quite often. It’s—well, it’s noisy. And I get...headaches.” _Headaches?_ All this time with the Shelbys and that was the lie she’d managed? She wanted to kick herself. “I think they both mean well, but they disagree on a lot.” 

“Oh? With business, or with family matters?” 

Trixie shrugged, busying herself with a long sip of her drink and hoping Grace would drop it. Even now, the person she was talking to had ulterior motives, but Trixie found some comfort in the fact that she at least knew what they were. She did miss having friends who weren’t out to get her, though. Things had been so simple before, and she hadn’t even thought to appreciate it while she had it. “How are you, Grace? Is it quite different here from Galway?” 

“Quite different,” Grace agreed. She set the rag aside. “Do you mind if I share the bottle with you?” 

Trixie shook her head, sliding it back across the bar. “Not at all.” 

After pouring herself a healthy serving of the gin, Grace joined Trixie on the other side of the bar, hopping up on a stool and crossing her legs delicately. This felt like a moment of equity—both of them drinking, side by side. “Galway was...well, it was a bit of a mess,” Grace admitted. “The British Army were headquartered in town, so the IRA couldn’t do as much damage as they would’ve liked, though they certainly tried.” 

“War is hell,” Trixie said. 

“War is hell,” Grace concurred. “It’s worse when it’s happening at home, I think. I love my country, but I wish we’d find peace.” 

Trixie nodded. She didn’t have much love or reverence for England or the Crown, but then again—she’d never been a fan of authority, no matter what form it took or where the power was wielded. Maybe that was why she preferred Arthur in charge; he was barely a leader. 

“Are you from here?” Grace asked. 

It was polite enough, but Trixie had grown weary of the same question, over and over. People always wanted to know where she was from, because she couldn’t possibly belong _here._ “Yes,” she said. “Born and raised, on the other side of the canal.” 

“Are your parents still in town?” Grace asked. 

“My parents are dead,” Trixie replied. 

“I’m sorry,” Grace said. After a beat, she added, “I lost my father, recently.” 

“I’m sorry to you too, then,” Trixie said. She lifted her glass. “To fathers.” 

Grace clinked her own drink against Trixie’s. “To fathers.” After finishing off her drink, she asked, “Did you get along well with yours?” 

It was an understatement if she’d ever heard one. As far as Trixie was concerned, her father hung the stars in the sky. Never before had the world seen such a wonderful man, and she knew with total certainty that it never would again. “He was my favorite person in the world,” she admitted. A thousand memories came to mind, but the one she thought of daily was the one she chose to speak about. “He collected books. He used to loan them out to parishioners at his church and trade them with his wealthier friends, and he would read to me at night. One chapter of the latest book he’d found, and then one chapter from the Bible.” She swallowed the lump in her throat. “When he got sick, I would read to him instead.” Feeling mortified by the admission, she asked Grace, “What about your father?” 

Grace was quiet for a moment, tracing the rim of her glass with her thumb. “He was a brave man. He died bravely, at the very least. I wanted—I wanted to be a police officer like him when I was young, before I realized that women weren’t made for that sort of thing.” 

Even knowing it was a lie, Trixie felt something like compassion for her. “I wanted to go to school like my father,” she admitted. “And I wanted to read...forever. I wanted to write, eventually, too. But–well, women aren’t made for that sort of thing, either, as it turns out.” 

“You could write under a penname,” Grace suggested. “Use a male name. Bernard Price.” 

“Maybe,” Trixie said, shrugging. “I don’t know.” She sighed. “Sorry, I’m not sure if I can offer any workaround for you to become a copper.” 

“Copper!” Grace exclaimed, then laughed with a snort. “I’ve never heard that.” 

“Maybe not in Galway,” Trixie said, “but you’re in Birmingham now.” 

“It’s hard to forget it,” Grace said. “I miss the sun.” 

“God, I miss the sun,” Trixie agreed. “It’s—the sky has been grey my entire life. I used to go to the countryside every now and then, but it’s been ages. I want so badly to look up someday and see blue, or—or _anything_ but that smoke.” 

“Let’s go to the countryside, then,” Grace suggested. “When you finally give me the tour—we’ll go somewhere outside the city too. There are museums, I think. Or parks. Gardens, even.” 

Trixie wished things were easier, so she could actually consider it. She wanted to see gardens, she wanted to see museums. But she didn’t want to die—at the hands of the Shelbys, or the Inspector. Grace wasn’t her friend, even if it was easy to talk to her. Nonetheless, she found herself agreeing. “We will.” After all, it would be rather odd for her to say no. Putting the plans off indefinitely, though, was fair game. 

When Grace didn’t say anything, Trixie followed her eye line out the door. “Is that your fiance?” Grace asked. 

Trixie squinted. Outside, Tommy Shelby was strolling down the street with his hands in his pockets, looking like trouble. She knew why she had been out so late, but why was he wandering the streets at two in the morning? “It is,” she said. “I should probably go catch up to him, it’s a bit of a pain to walk back to my apartment alone this time of night.” 

“Thanks for the company,” Grace said, standing and collecting both empty glasses and tucking the bottle of gin under her arm. “Let me know about the tour, yeah?” 

“I will,” Trixie promised, smiling to cover the lie. She cast a sideways glance out the door, where Tommy was getting further and further away. “Well, I’ll see you later,” she said, and then took off out the doors. 

Like always, the cold air was a slap in the face. Trixie wasn’t going to chase him down—she was wearing heels, and the cobbled streets and darkness didn’t make for a good combination, so she opened her mouth and shouted. 

“Tommy!” 

He stopped, apparently startled, and then searched the dark streets for which fool had decided to hassle him on his way home. Trixie took long steps to catch up to him, her heels clicking hard against the sidewalk. “What do you want?” he asked, resuming his strides as soon as she was by his side. 

“Why are you out so late?” she countered. 

“Can’t a man walk around his own city without being interrogated?” he returned. 

“Can’t a wife ask her husband questions?” she retorted. 

He skidded to a stop, turning to glare at her, and she met his eyes without fear. They were bloodshot—worryingly so. 

“Are you alright?” she asked. 

“Do you care?” 

“I obviously asked for a reason.” 

He blew out a breath, clearly irritated. “I’m fine. What do you need?” 

“You didn’t answer my first question.” 

“Which was?” 

“What you’re doing out this late.” She folded her arms across the chest. “Something with the guns?” 

He said nothing. It was answer enough. 

Trixie sensed an opportunity here. Something was off about Tommy—he seemed almost unfocused. “I want to make a deal,” she declared. “I think we’re in a position to help each other out.” 

“You work for me,” Tommy said. “Don’t we already have a deal?” 

“I work for _Polly,”_ Trixie argued. “Polly pays me and Polly gives me orders. I know you’re making a move for Arthur’s job, and I know enough about oligarchies to know that split power never does anyone any good but a family’s enemies.” 

“Right,” said Tommy, though it sounded much more like he was telling her she was _wrong._

“I don’t believe it’s any secret that I’m loyal to Polly first and foremost,” said Trixie. “You’re just an unfortunate side effect of that.” 

“Okay,” said Tommy. She could sense the parenthetical _And…?_ lingering at the edge of his sentence. 

“So,” she continued. “I’d like to change that.” 

Tommy pinched the bridge of his nose, looking like he’d like very much for the conversation to be over. It was startling to see him reacting so openly; his steely demeanor was gone. Suddenly, Trixie realized _why_ he was behaving so oddly. She stopped again. 

“I’m—sorry, are you high?” 

“S’that a problem?” 

She blinked at him dumbly. It shouldn’t have surprised her as much as it did. Arthur and John had their drinking, and Tommy had drugs, apparently. Though her knowledge on the subject was limited, she’d spent enough time with the tailors in the Chinese Quarter to know that they took the brunt of the opium-related bad press, while white Englishmen and Englishwomen smoked more of it than anyone else in the country did. 

“It’s a bit stupid to be walking around in this state,” she remarked. “Come on.” 

“Where?” he asked. 

“Your house.” 

He shook his head. “Can’t let Poll see me like this,” he mumbled. 

Trixie laughed despite herself. “I knew that the great Mr. Shelby had to fear something, if not God.” When Tommy just glared, she added, “Where were you planning on going, then? If you can’t go home?” 

“I would’ve gone for a drink, had you not been in the midst of a chat with our favorite barmaid.” 

She scoffed at the nerve to criticize her for drinking. “First of all, you’ve clearly been hitting the pipe, so don’t you dare try to assert any moral authority over me. And second of all, I worked for seventeen hours today, dearest. One needs to recover from that sort of thing. Doesn’t mean I’m stupid; your secrets are still safe with me,” she mocked. “If you want a drink so badly, you can go have one.” 

“Bar’s closed.” 

“She likes me. Surely she’ll make an exception for my beloved.” 

“You’re getting cocky,” he criticized. 

“You’ve _always_ been cocky, and you never seemed to see that as a problem.” 

He glanced at her again, and then started back down the sidewalk. “What terms are you proposing?”

“Right,” she said, remembering the deal in question. The fact that he was willing to hear her out was a good sign, at least. “Like I said, I’m much more partial to Polly than you. And she’s not a fan of races being fixed, or the fact that you obviously held onto the guns instead of tossing them. Right?” 

Tommy raised an unimpressed eyebrow as he glanced over at her, and remained quiet. 

“Well, you’re going for Arthur’s throne. Polly’s the only one with enough power to rival yours, if we’re all being honest with ourselves, and while she’d let you take Arthur’s job she wouldn’t be having you run things your way without listening to anyone else.” 

Tilting his head to the side, he asked, “Are you going to betray Polly, Miss Price?” 

“Quite formal for your lover, don’t you think?” she countered. 

He shrugged. She continued. 

“I would never do anything to endanger Polly, but I know you wouldn’t either. I’m not suggesting disloyalty to her so much as a newfound sense of loyalty to you. I will tell Campbell whatever you want. What you say goes, and if there’s a discrepancy between what you want and what she wants, I’ll default to you.” 

A long moment passed, where he slowed to a stop. “And what are you getting out of this?” 

“I want your word that I won’t be out of a job if you take over.” 

“ _When_ I take over.” 

Trixie rolled her eyes. “Sure.” 

“Well,” said Tommy. “If you do nothing wrong, then I’ll have no reason to let you go.” 

“I won’t,” she said. “I’m good at my job.” 

“So John says.” 

“So _everybody_ says, Tommy. I am.” 

He sighed. “And is that all? Job security in the long run?” 

Trixie thought about it, and then shook her head. There was something else she wanted—and the worst he could do was say no. “I want a twenty-percent raise.” That was being generous—thirty would’ve been more fair, but she wasn’t going to overestimate her bargaining abilities right now. 

“What do you need the money for?” he asked. “Everything you need you should be getting free, anyhow.” 

She shrugged. It wasn’t his business. “I have a wedding coming up,” she reminded him, holding up her hand and showing off her ring. The gem in the middle caught the light from a passing car and threw it back at Tommy, illuminating his eyes for the briefest moment. How strange that they’d ended up like this: alone, together, on the street in the early hours of the morning, making deals and posing as lovers. She’d spent more time with Tommy Shelby in the last few weeks than she had in the entirety of the year before, and he was somehow exactly what she expected and the total opposite. Still selfish, still cruel, still cunning. It was almost worse knowing him better; she could no longer write him off as the devil, and instead had to confront the very jarring reality of him being just as human as she was. 

“Twenty percent?” he asked. “Ten.” 

“Fifteen.” 

“Twelve.” 

“ _Fifteen_ ,” Trixie said firmly. 

He regarded her with a look of...curiosity, was it? As though he was half impressed and half annoyed. “Deal.”

“Should I make it into a contract?” 

The corner of his mouth quirked up, so slightly she could have imagined it. “A contract wouldn’t do you any good. We can seal it with a kiss, if you want to be formal about it.” 

Trixie resisted the urge to gag. Had it not been for the look of mutual disgust on his face as he offered the suggestion, she might have felt bad, but as it was, she did not. “ _Absolutely_ not.” Trixie stuck her hand out. “You’ll treat me as an equal in ritual if not on paper. Shake my hand, Tommy.” 

He looked down at her hand, and then met her eyes. In her heels, he was only a few inches taller than her. For once, she felt as though he might respect her. They were eye-to-eye, owing each other. His leverage was her own. They’d somehow gotten into a mess that had tied them together without mercy. 

When Tommy accepted her hand in his, the calloused skin of his fingers meeting the soft skin of her knuckles, she was still somehow surprised. A jolt of something—something she either couldn’t or wouldn’t name—shot up her arm into her shoulder. After two sharp shakes, she pulled away, shoving her hand into the pocket of her coat. It felt burned; _she_ felt raw. 

“Fifteen percent, starting immediately,” she said. “My next meeting with Campbell is on Wednesday.” She glanced at her watch. Two-forty in the morning. “Tomorrow, I guess, technically.” 

“You’ll meet me before work again,” he said. 

“Where?” 

“I’ll pick you up.” 

Trixie scowled. “I swear to Christ, Tommy, if you so much as think about throwing me into the Cut—” 

“I won’t,” he muttered. “Be ready at eight.” He gave her a once-over, dripping with contempt. “I’d hate to catch you by surprise like the last time.” 

Rolling her eyes, she retorted, “Well, it can’t be a surprise because it’s a time we’ve agreed upon and it’s a meeting that I actually know is happening.” 

He nodded. “Then we have a deal. Eight, tomorrow.” 

She tugged on the lapels of her coat, straightening it. “Eight.” Half joking, she added, “Should we shake on that, too?”

To Trixie’s surprise, Tommy stuck out his hand again, and she accepted it. How strange, indeed. 

Across the street, bathed in shadow, was something even more dangerous than Tommy Shelby would ever be. Grace Burgess, haloed by golden locks, hand over the gun in her purse, watched the supposed lovers as they made a deal in the moonlight. When Beatrice looked over, scanning the road, the diamond on her finger glinted again, almost in warning. Grace held onto her bag a little tighter and turned, disappearing into the Birmingham night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hello hello so sorry for the delay! I was dealing with a loss in the family just as school was starting and things were getting a bit hectic, but I’ve decided that I’ll be updating on Mondays. The poll ended up being tied, so I just decided which one would be easier for me. Chapter six should be coming sometime this week, and then after that it’ll be a regular Monday update schedule. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, I’m so excited that we’ve gotten through episode one! There’s so much more excitement to come, and I hope you all enjoy it as much as I do. Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed last time around, your comments all made my day :-) Please let me know what you thought of this chapter as well and I will see you next time!
> 
>  **Chapter 6** / The Pale Horse
> 
> “My god, your ring,” Polly gasped. 
> 
> Trixie frowned. “What do you mean, my ring? You were the one who told Tommy to give it to me.” 
> 
> Polly narrowed her eyes and shook her head. “I most certainly did not.” 


	7. The Pale Horse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listen to this chapter’s soundtrack [here.](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2pJPdwxvAEjSggzioKPqhh?si=Gi2ys_qsSHm9BrDpJ3uKNw)

_ “ _ _ And I looked, and behold, a white horse! And its rider had a bow, and a crown was given to him, and he came out conquering, and to conquer.”  _ -Revelations 6:2

* * *

Trixie learned to rest on the Sabbath. A lesson her father had taught her before his passing, and one that she clung to, every week, without fail. For nineteen years, she rose with the sun to the sound of her father rehearsing his homilies, and now, she rose even earlier. Before dawn, to make the six o’clock mass on Sunday mornings. 

The early morning air was cold and unforgiving, but it always gave way to a blue dawn that Trixie took as a sign of God. While most of Birmingham crammed into the church for nine o’clock mass, or even noon, she preferred to worship alone. Only a handful of people scattered themselves among the pews so early in the morning, and the service was always quieter. 

Trixie learned to rest on the Sabbath, and for two decades, she had carried on without fail. But the Shelbys were consuming her life piece by piece, and this was no exception. 

It was a quarter til, and she was hurrying down the road, less out of urgency and more to warm up her legs. After the usual turn down Armoury Road, she was confronted with a rather unusual sight: a small army of Birmingham Police Officers, on horseback. Before them was Inspector Campbell, his high voice carrying down the street. Trixie reeled back as soon as she realized, pressing her back to the wall of the tailor shop on the corner, and straining to hear what Campbell was saying. 

“ _ We will take them before last night’s beer turns to piss and wakes the Devils up. Leave no stone unturned. Every gun, every bullet will be brought to me for inspection…” _

Oh  _ Christ.  _ The guns. They were after Tommy’s guns. 

Trixie frowned. The Church was only a block away at this point, and the service would be starting soon. She could make it if she charged ahead. But she needed to warn Polly. She needed to warn all of them. Chewing the inside of her cheek, she considered her options–would it be better to betray her merciful God, or the not-at-all-merciful Tommy Shelby? 

The math wasn’t hard. One would offer her forgiveness, the other would not. She would simply have to work in a trip to the confessional sometime soon.  _ Forgive me, Father, for I have abandoned your House to cover up my crimes.  _ Hardly convincing, but it would have to be enough. 

Turning on her heel towards Watery Lane, Trixie haphazardly waved her hand across her body to perform the Sign of the Cross. The guilt was already beginning to creep into her stomach, but she forced herself not to dote on the feeling, focusing instead on taking long, rapid strides towards the Shelby headquarters, where she would no doubt wake Polly and then sour her already bad mood. 

_ Tommy better make good on that raise.  _ The sky was a moody gray, tinted blue by the rising sun, and on any other occasion she would’ve stopped to gawk, but there was no time for that today. Not when her job–and more likely, her life–were at risk. 

Raising a fist, Trixie pounded on the door hard enough that the horseshoe on the top of the frame rattled. She waited a moment. Nothing. Slamming the door again, she yelled, “ _ Polly!”  _

She threw a look over her shoulder, to ensure that Campbell was still a few streets down and nobody else could hear her. The front door flew open, then, and she whipped her head back to meet eyes with an exhausted and slightly-alarmed looking Polly. “What in God’s name is going on?” she demanded. 

“I need to come in. It’s an emergency.” 

Opening the door a little wider, Polly gestured into the living room and Trixie followed. “What kind of emergency has you waking the dead on a bloody Sunday?” 

“Campbell is performing a raid a few streets over. It’s only a matter of time before he gets here, and wants to bust your door down and get into the betting parlor. We need to hide the books.” 

Polly eyed her, face blank, for a moment, and then nodded. “Alright. You have your keys?” 

Trixie dug into her purse and pulled the keyring out. 

“Good,” Polly said. “I’ll collect the boys’ guns, and you can hide the books and the money.” 

“Are they still at the fair?” Trixie asked, shrugging off her coat and tossing it on the armchair. 

“They come back this afternoon!” Polly called back, already hurrying up the stairs in search of any incriminating weapons. 

After Polly had disappeared into the landing, Trixie took a moment to catch her breath and focus. Good work rarely happened hastily. After a long exhale, she marched towards the curtain leading to the betting parlor and threw it open, storming into the oddly-empty room and heading straight for the cabinets with the money boxes. Since Monaghan Boy’s win, it wasn't like there was much cash to hide, but Trixie wouldn’t take chances. She hauled the safes out of the cabinet and set them on the floor, where she worked at prying up the nail keeping the floorboard in the ground. The cold metal pinched at the tips of her fingers as she grunted and pulled, but the nails didn’t budge. 

“Fuck,” she muttered. 

Standing up straight, Trixie scanned the room for something she could use to pull the nails out of the floor. Arthur always kept an expensive letter opener somewhere in his desk–a gift from a French prostitute, allegedly, though Trixie doubted that the story held true. It could work. 

Inside the office, to Trixie’s horror, the floor was sticky. She lifted her heel gracelessly, inspecting the bottom and finding nothing offensive, but when she placed it back down and tried to take a step, her food strained again against the T-strap of her shoe. “What in Christ’s name?” she mumbled. 

Trixie squatted down, careful to keep her knees above the floor so as not to implicate her stockings as well. There was a faint puddle on the floor, not quite slippery, but something that had been liquid at one point. The memory of last week’s incident rushed back to her–Arthur swiping the bottle off of his desk and sending it crashing to the floor. Had he really not bothered to clean it up? 

She didn’t make any effort to hide her disgust as she stood up straight and headed for his desk drawers, yanking them open in search of the letter opener. There seemed to be no reason for the way things were organized, so Trixie rifled through the piles of paper, old cigarette boxes, pens, and spilled matches until finally, in the bottom drawer, she managed to locate the blade, black and adorned with gold decoration. It felt even more expensive up close. 

On her way out of the office, she made an effort to hop over the puddle, but the residue remained on her shoes as she strode back towards the money boxes and the loose floorboard. After wedging the letter opener under the nail, she gritted her teeth and pulled. It gave after a moment of pressure, and she gripped it between her fingers and yanked it all the way out of the floor. The next nail followed suit, and Trixie lifted the board up at an angle, high enough to slide the money box in. 

It wasn’t enough room to fit them all in, and so Trixie moved a few feet down and continued pulling nails out of the floor. For each baseboard she lifted, she said another prayer that mice weren’t nesting beneath her, and thankfully, God seemed to be listening. 

With the books and boxes buried, Trixie began jamming the nails back into place. They warped and curved as she stamped on them with her shoe, but it was better than nothing, and if Tommy was petty enough to take the cost of a dozen nails out of her paycheck, that would be just fine with her. 

“Trixie, dearest, we should go.” 

Polly stood in the doorway, one veil covering her face and another in her hand. Trixie brushed down the skirt of her dress. “Go where?” 

“Church,” Polly replied, holding out the second veil. 

“Next service isn’t for over an hour, though,” Trixie said. 

“It’s better to be early than late,” Polly reminded her. “And it’ll give us a good enough alibi for when the pigs inevitably come knocking.” 

She turned, her hair fanning out behind her as she strode back through the curtains, leaving Trixie with nothing but a widow’s veil and heels that glued themselves to the floor. “Pigs,” she muttered, thinking about the Inspector’s bright pink face. “Fitting.” 

With that, she followed Polly through the curtain, already fastening the veil to her hair. Trixie reached for her purse and coat, rushing to catch up with Polly. It felt like all she’d been doing for the last few months was running down the street in an effort to catch up with one of the Peaky Blinders. 

“What happens when he finds us?” she asked Polly, keeping her head low so the lace would shield her face. 

“We’ll do as we women have done since the war ended,” Polly replied, linking her arm through Trixie’s and standing up a little taller. “We’ll play dumb.” 

* * *

“ _ Pater noster qui es in coelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum…”  _

It was half past eight, and Trixie had prayed the Rosary almost a dozen times now. She was beginning to lose track of which Mysteries were which, and how many Ave Marias she’d finished, and if Campbell didn’t show up soon, then she was going to consider giving up. 

At the front of the Church, Polly lit the honorary candles for the boys who had died in the war. One for Luca, at the very least. The flickering flame coaxed unbelievable sorrow from the depths of Trixie’s heart. He deserved more than what she could give him. His body had been obliterated in the plane crash, shot down somewhere over Germany. They hadn’t even had a funeral for him. After all, there had been nothing left to bury. 

It was a very basic concept, and yet something Trixie still struggled to grasp. Luca had once been real, and solid, and full. He’d been real enough to hold her and be held, he had existed in flesh and blood and spirit. Now, all that was gone. It wasn’t just...somewhere else. It had all been destroyed. The hands she had once held in her own were no longer out in the world, and the boy she had loved had disappeared almost without a trace. As if he had never been there to begin with. 

Trixie wished to God that she had been sent to the war instead of him. Her soul was made for fighting, for hardening and surviving by the skin of her teeth, but Luca—he’d been too soft for a world that cruel. She hoped, wherever he was, he wasn’t watching the person she was now. Or if he was, then she prayed he could find it in himself to forgive her for all that she’d become. 

When the Church doors were finally thrown open, Trixie turned, and for the first and likely the last time, found herself happy to see Inspector Campbell. The sooner this confrontation was over, the sooner she could go home and have breakfast. 

Dropping her head in prayer, Trixie began mumbling the _ Pater Noster _ again, disregarding the fact that she’d only done two Ave Marias since the last one. 

While she returned to her prayers, Polly didn’t bother with the facade. “A gentleman would take off his hat,” she reminded Campbell. “Put out his pipe.” 

Trixie felt her body tense, only made worse by the sudden clanging of Campbell’s pipe against the pew behind her. “ _ Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in coelo et un terra.”  _ Her voice was barely more than a whisper, and yet impossibly loud as it rushed to fill the void Campbell’s knocking had left behind. 

“I see you specials only dare come here when the boys are away at the fair,” Polly taunted. Trixie looked up through her veil and watched as Polly finally turned around to meet the Inspector’s eye. 

“You mean your nephews?” Campbell returned, strolling past Trixie. She felt like a fish in shark-infested waters, and he was a predator circling. “With their guns and their razors? Is it them you’re lighting candles for?”

Trixie was grateful that Campbell would never know Luca’s name, but something in her heart darkened at the way he talked about the death. For a man who hadn’t even fought in the war, he seemed to have a lot to say on the subject. 

“No,” Polly said. “I’m lighting candles for the boys from the Garrison who lost their lives in France.” 

The Inspector took a step forward, close enough to the candles now to blow them out, or perhaps catch his sleeve in the flame. Trixie watched his reaction carefully, forcing the words of the Ave Maria out of her mouth through muscle memory more than venerance. 

Campbell surveyed the altar, pulling his gloves off casually. “There’s a list there,” Polly said, pointing over to the engraving on the wall. Luca’s name wouldn’t be on it–he was memorialized at the Church across town; Trixie’s father’s Church. “ _ Look,” _ Polly demanded, the match in her hand hovering over the wick of the candle. Campbell didn’t listen, instead fixated on rearranging his gloves in his hands. What a wretched man. An officer of the crown, and still a coward. Or perhaps she should say, an officer of the crown, and  _ so  _ a coward. “I hear you didn’t make it to France, Inspector Campbell,” Polly continued, blowing out the match. 

Trixie was having trouble keeping up with the Latin and the conversation before her, so she switched from Rosary’s to her intentions. As she rattled through the list of souls she prayed for, she eyed Campbell intently. Specifically—his clear lack of regard for anything Polly was saying. 

“You’ve heard of me?” Campbell asked, taking a step towards Polly. The lilt in his voice was teasing—flirtatious, almost, and Trixie wanted to throw up. Or hit him over the head with a brick. Both, preferably. “I’ve heard of you,” he went on. Trixie’s lips froze mid-prayer, and she watched as Campbell leaned in towards Polly. She didn’t back away, just smirked at him knowingly. 

For a long moment, nobody moved. Then, Campbell peeled away, shoving through the iron gates before the altar and rifling around behind them. Trixie’s hand flew to her mouth, physically restraining a gasp. Nobody was to go behind the altar—she had grown up in a Church, for the most part, and she had never stepped foot into the well beyond the gate, and here Campbell was, marching into it as if he owned the place after a whole five minutes. 

Polly, still managing to stay calm, tilted her head curiously. “Is it the Holy Grail you’re looking for?” she asked, innocently enough. 

Campbell leaned down, shoving something aside beneath the altar. Trixie flinched at the sound of objects shifting and being turned over. He stood up, heading back towards Polly, but remaining on the wrong side of the gate. “As a matter of fact,” he said, “It  _ is  _ the Holy Grail I’m looking for. Something precious. Something...stolen.” Before Trixie could even comprehend it, Campbell was shoving Polly up against the wall, her veil hanging dangerously close to the flames of the memorial candles. “Perhaps you know what I’m talking about.” 

Trixie gawked dumbly, waiting for someone to do something. As useless as she would’ve been in a confrontation, she wished she at least had the option to try to do something—even if that something was just hurling the Daily Missile at Campbell’s head until he relented. Instead, she was stuck frozen, her mouth open, as she watched Campbell’s hand find a grip around Polly’s neck and pretended to be on his side. 

Trixie expected Polly to kick him, or push him away, or perhaps laugh at him. Instead, she lunged forward, kissing Campbell flat on the mouth, for only a moment before he reeled back in disgust. 

“Sorry,” Polly smirked. “I misunderstood your intention when you pushed me against the wall.” Her grin was quite pleased; meanwhile, Trixie struggled to contain her horror. As Campbell wiped at his lips with a handkerchief, she drew her steepled fingers into tighter fists, the points of her nails digging harshly into the skin on the back of her hands. 

He returned to the gates, pushing past them again with irreverence. Instead of going to the altar, though, he went to the side door, pushing it open. A group of soldiers filed through, swarming the pews with their rifles at the ready. Trixie didn’t understand why—what were they planning on doing? Shooting the guns? 

On his way back down the aisle, Campbell called out instructions to his troops. “Turn the place upside down!” Then, he glanced towards Trixie, gesturing with the slightest nod towards the back door. After he passed by, she gave Polly a knowing look. Campbell wanted a meeting, and apparently, he wanted it now. Trixie wasn’t sure what was so urgent that he couldn’t wait, but she needed to hold on a few moments to keep up the facade that Polly was unaware of the arrangement. 

She finished out her Rosary, and a few minutes later, collected her things. “I’m off,” she said to Polly. “I have to meet with a seamstress tomorrow for the wedding, and I need to finalize the sketches tonight.” 

“Alright, dear,” Polly said, winking over one of the soldier’s shoulders. “I’ll see you tomorrow then? Will you accompany Tommy to work?” 

Trixie nodded, smiling thinly. “I will. I’ll see you then, Mrs. Gray.” 

With that, she collected her purse and began weaving through the line of soldiers, attempting to appear polite. Outside, Campbell was waiting in the alley behind the church, his pipe now lit and blowing clouds of smoke out into the air. Trixie cast a faux-nervous look over her shoulder for good measure, and then stopped by his side. “Inspector,” she greeted. 

“Miss Price,” he returned. “I hear your fiance is more important than you initially led us to believe.” 

“What do you mean?” she asked. 

“It’s not Arthur who’s in charge of the Peaky Blinders, is it?” he asked. “It’s Thomas.” 

“Thomas?” she balked. “N-no. You have to be mistaken.” Was she overplaying it? “He’s a severe man at times, believe me, I know that better than anyone, but he’s been made so distraught by the things he saw in France. I don’t think he could run an organization like this if he tried.” 

“Maybe you don’t know him as well as you think,” Campbell countered. “It’s quite possible, Miss Price, that he’s hiding his true nature from you so as to win your affections.” 

“Don’t we all pretend to be better than we are, though?” she returned. 

Campbell smiled, knowing. “Tell Thomas I’d like to meet with him on Friday. Ten o’clock, at the Lickey Tea Rooms.” He placed his hands on her shoulders, and she resisted the urge to shudder.    
“You stay strong, alright Beatrice? We’ll have you out of this mess soon enough.” 

“Thank you,” she replied, nodding sincerely. “Thank you so much.” 

“You have my card if you need anything, alright?” 

Trixie nodded. “I’ll see you next Wednesday, sir.” 

“Wednesday it is.” He pulled out a pocket watch, clicking it open. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to head back to my office to take a call soon.” 

Stepping out of the way, she tossed him a gracious smile. “Of course,” she replied. “Have a good day, Sir.” 

“And you, Miss Price,” he replied, tipping his hat and strolling off down the alley. The scent of his cologne—obnoxious and overapplied—clung to the air. She needed to get out of here. 

After a few minutes passed, and Trixie decided that it was probably safe for her to return to the Church’s front doors, she rounded the corner and pressed up the steps delicately, only to collide nearly head-on with Polly. “Oh, dear!” Polly exclaimed, sounding rather joyful for such a miserable occasion. 

“I think he’s gone,” Trixie muttered. “And the officers?” 

“Still inside,” Polly answered, her voice low. “I don’t think your gloves are in there,” she answered, louder this time. “Maybe you left them back at the house? Let’s check.” Looping her arm through Trixie’s, she began guiding her back towards 5 Watery Lane. “What did he want?” she asked. 

“He wants to meet with Tommy,” Trixie replied. “On Friday. He knows that Tommy’s in charge.” 

“What a prick,” Polly remarked. 

Trixie snorted out a laugh. “Couldn’t agree more.” Then, “Do you think Tommy will do it?” 

“Only Tommy can really answer that,” Polly responded. She sounded exhausted by the admission. “It depends on whether he can come up with something to extort from him.” 

“And if he can’t?” 

Polly hummed, taking Trixie’s hands between her own. Instead of answering the question, she let out a sudden gasp. “My god, your ring!” she hissed. 

Trixie pulled her hand away, almost instinctively, to inspect it for damage or anything else worthy of a gasp. “What do you mean, ‘ _ my ring’?  _ You were the one who had Tommy give it to me.” 

Narrowing her eyes and shaking her head, Polly responded, “I most  _ certainly  _ did not.” 

Wait.. Trixie frowned. If Polly hadn’t told Tommy to give her the ring, then who had? And why? “Why did he give it to me, then? There was no need for it, I already had an engagement ring.” 

Polly shrugged. “He’s an odd one, Tommy, but he never does anything without a reason.” 

“Exactly,” Trixie said. She looked down at her hand again, at the gem on her finger. “That’s what I’m afraid of.” 

Next to her, Polly regarded the band with the same amount of skepticism as Trixie, but she didn’t dwell on it for long. “Let’s get home,” she said. “The boys will be back soon, and we’ll have to fill them in.” 

Watery Lane wasn’t home for her—Tommy had made it clear enough that she would never belong enough to be a Peaky Blinder herself—but Trixie didn’t say anything. Instead, she nodded, held out her arm for Polly, and lengthened her strides, taking advantage of the fact that, for once, she was one step ahead of the Shelby brothers, instead of ten steps behind. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to episode 2! This chapter is a bit short, I'm sorry, but this just felt like the right ending point and it gave me the chance to update early! The next chapter is going to be coming next Monday (and should be longer!). There's so much I'm excited to get into with this episode, especially getting a bit more into Trixie's friendships with the other Shelbys (specifically Ada), her budding rivalry with Grace, and her weird arrangement with Tommy.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading and thank you to all who reviewed the last chapter! Please let me know what you thought of this chapter as well :-)
> 
>  **Chapter 7** / _Storms & Saints_
> 
> "You seem to really enjoy the idea of saving a damsel in distress," Trixie remarked.
> 
> Tommy smirked. "Guess you'll have to be distressed then, huh?"


	8. Storms & Saints

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listen to this chapter’s soundtrack [here.](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1wUtgUOFiG4gq7FR2NiJNk?si=L6ALFA-tSY2-Lk6JYOm2qg)

_"Watch and pray so that you will not fall into temptation. The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak."_ -Matthew 26:41

"The coppers told everyone Arthur had agreed to it when he was arrested. They said the Peaky Blinders had cleared out to the fair to let them do it."

In the living room, all the Shelbys but Ada and Finn had gathered, flasks and cigarettes in hand, as Polly and Trixie filled them in on the news of the raid. They'd returned from the fair a few hours ago, storming into the betting shop as Trixie hunched over on the floor to dig the boxes back out. They'd come in laughing, but when Polly had called them all into the dining room, the bellowing joy had disappeared, clouded over by concern.

Now, Arthur was sat down at the dining room table, taking a gulp from the mug of beer in front of him. Trixie stood wedged between Polly and Tommy, her spine stiff, caught in the middle of the gazes that volleyed between the Peaky Blinders' two leaders.

"I never said nothing to that copper about smashing up bloody houses," Arthur insisted, slamming his beer back down against the table. Trixie blew out a breath. Arthur spent so much time drunk he barely remembered to tie his shoes; who knew what he had said when he was kidnapped and tortured?

"Alright," Tommy interrupted, raising his hands to command silence. "Which pubs did they do?"

Polly struck a match for her cigarette, then offered it to Trixie, who used it to light her own smoke. "The Guns, the Chain, the Marquis," she said. "All the ones you're paid to protect, except the Garrison."

"At least they know to leave the Garrison the fuck alone," John remarked, unscrewing the cap on his flask.

Polly and Trixie shared a look. "I don't think that's the case," Trixie said. "I think they left the Garrison alone because they already have someone watching it."

"Whaddya mean?" John asked. "Who's watching the Garrison?"

"That new barmaid, Grace?" Trixie asked. "Pretty blonde thing? She got to town the same time as the Inspector, she's Irish, too. Harry says she begged to work at the Garrison." After a beat, she added, "No offense to you boys, but no woman in her right mind wants to work at the Garrison."

John howled, elbowing Arthur in the shoulder. His older brother was unmoved, staring into his glass like it was the barrel of a gun. "You think they got a woman to watch us?" John asked.

Trixie raised an eyebrow. "I do, and I think the fact that you're asking that is exactly why."

He paused, absorbing this information, and then leaned back against the side of Arthur's chair. "Huh," he said finally.

Polly and Tommy both leaned forward, meeting eyes across Trixie. Then, Polly ordered, "Make sure people think we were in on it." She took a drag. "He's smart, this copper."

Trixie rolled her eyes. "Not that smart," she disagreed. "As far as he's concerned, I'm still a hostage of this family."

"That's good," said Polly. "We ought to keep it that way." The boys watched her, waiting for her to give further orders. Instead, she waved them away. "Go on, then. Drink your beers, get out. You'd better show people you're still the cocks of the walk."

The group stood, abandoning their glasses on the table and meandering out of the room. Arthur hung back behind them, looking miserable and somehow pained. If Trixie was a better person, she might have followed him to make sure he was okay, but there were bigger things she needed to deal with besides a man wallowing in his own self-pity. "Pay some veterans to fix the places up," Tommy called after the men.

"So what about you, Tommy?" Arthur asked, slipping on his jacket.

Tommy took a drag of his cigarette. "I have to go to Charlie's to stable the horse. She looked footsore in the box."

Trixie, who had busied herself with collecting the mugs, raised an eyebrow. They'd gone to the fair for the weekend and returned with a horse? Or had they not gone to the fair at all? She wished that, for once, things would be in truth exactly how they seemed on the surface. It was exhausting juggling several layers of reality.

After setting the mugs down on the bureau, Trixie sat down in the chair Arthur had left behind. The general noise of the betting shop had returned, and Polly reminded the departing men to show their faces before pulling the door shut. Trixie glanced up, as subtle as she could manage, and was disappointed that Tommy had hung back as well.

"So, we all know what they were looking for," Polly said, taking a seat in the chair next to Trixie and gesticulating with her cigarette pointedly. "You don't read the papers."

Tommy shrugged. "Racing papers."

Trixie thought back to when she'd been made to prove her literacy at the Garrison all those months ago, and resisted the urge to laugh.

"Why don't we tell you the odds?" Polly asked, nudging Trixie with her wrist.

Trixie pursed her lips. These were numbers she and Polly didn't even agree on—Polly swore up and down it was three-to-one in favor of revolution, while Trixie remained committed to her two-to-one estimation. The communists were making strides in their attempts to invigorate the working class, and it may have worked—except, in the aftermath of the war, patriotism was on the rise. People were too busy seeing the Germans as the enemy to notice the way their own elite were fucking them over.

"Polly reckons three-to-one in favor of a Revolution," Trixie said, tugging on the ribbon of her glove.

"And what do you reckon?" Tommy asked. "You're our accountant, after all."

She raised an eyebrow. Since when was Tommy invested in hearing her opinion? "I say two-to-one, in England at least. Patriotism is on the rise after the war."

He considered their competing estimates as he blew out a cloud of smoke. "I'd be more likely to bet on your odds than Poll's, but I wouldn't put money on either."

Sensing she was about to come down in the middle of a very dramatic family feud, Trixie leaned back slowly in her chair, as if shielding herself in its wingback. At her sides, Tommy and Polly sized each other up, challengingly. "Two-to-one or three, that copper's betting on a revolution," Polly announced. "He's not going to let it rest till he gets those guns back."

After a moment of consideration, Tommy collapsed into the seat to Trixie's right. "What else does that copper have to say, hm?"

With a shrug, Trixie replied, "He's arranged a little date for the two of you on Friday. Ten o'clock at the Lickey Tea Rooms. I assume that talking to Arthur for about ten minutes was enough to lead him to the conclusion that he can't be the one in charge."

He tilted his head back and forth, as if weighing the likelihood of that happening. Settling on a nod, as if it made sense, enough, Tommy rubbed the edge of his cigarette against his bottom lip. "Did he try to find our Ada?"

Trixie shook her head. "Not as far as I know. But if he wants to, I'm sure he could."

"Ada will be fine," Polly insisted. "We need to know if you plan to meet with him."

Trixie didn't know if the Copper would bother being as polite about setting a date next time, but she didn't see any reason for Tommy to get in touch with him either way, and they could surely afford the scrapes and bruises of a scuffle. "No," said Tommy, his voice like gravel. "You don't parley when you're on the back foot."

 _Odd._ If Tommy thought they were in a weaker position, Trixie wasn't sure what to make of the whole thing. Yes, Campbell wanted the guns. And yes, he wanted an excuse to go after the Shelbys, but from where she stood, they were in an excellent bargaining position. Twenty-five machine guns were surely enough of a bargaining chip to cash in tens of thousands of pounds. All they needed to do was hand them off to a buyer with similar interests, or at least one who wouldn't use them anywhere near Small Heath.

"If not negotiations, then what?" Polly asked.

Tommy turned, meeting Trixie's eyes instead. "We'll strike a blow back first." Then, without elaboration, he stood and collected his jacket and his hat, striding easily and confidently out of the room. When Trixie didn't follow him, he turned around in the doorway, rapping his knuckles against the doorframe. "Beatrice," he said, gesturing outside with a nod.

"What—alright." She stood, following him outside through the betting shop and out the back entrance. A throng of men had already gathered, likely placing bets on Monaghan Boy again, and Trixie smiled at them politely as she followed. When Tommy pushed the doors open, Trixie following him, she grimaced at the cold air. She hadn't been expecting their rendezvous to take place outside. "Christ, it's cold. Maybe Hell has frozen over after all."

Wordlessly, Tommy held out his jacket towards her.

"I'll look ridiculous," she dismissed, waving him away.

"You'll look more ridiculous if you're dead from frostbite," he countered.

Trixie rolled her eyes. "Fine." She shrugged the jacket on over her shoulders and, as she'd predicted, the boxy cut hung far too wide and the hem went past her hips. It was warm, she would admit, but the most logical solution seemed to be moving their meeting inside. "What did you need me for?"

"You're going to have a meeting with that copper, tonight," Tommy replied.

"Alright," said Trixie. "And what am I to tell him?"

"While the boys and I have a bonfire, you're going to distract him, and then ask for his protection from me. Say the raid made me very, very upset."

"Yes," said Trixie, noting his usual blank expression. "You seem extremely distraught."

The crease of his brow, now furrowed in response to her comment, actually did look somewhat distraught, but Trixie just smiled. What a pair they were—she wondered what anyone else thought of the couple. She'd never bothered hiding her disdain for him, and the feeling was clearly mutual. Now, here she was, in a bustling back alley wearing his coat while the clouds above grew fat with snow about to fall.

Trixie rubbed her hands together to warm them up, and remembered the ring on her finger. Why had Tommy said Polly had given it to him? Why had he given it to her at all? Part of her wanted to ask now, because in all the racking her brain for answers she'd done, she hadn't been able to figure it out. The temptation was strong, but Trixie knew it would be smarter to keep that bit of information in her metaphorical back pocket until she needed it.

"What am I going to do once I'm being protected? How am I supposed to work?"

"That's easy," Tommy replied. "You're not."

"What do you mean, I'm not? I need that money."

"You're being compensated for your work beyond balancing the books. You have no reason to worry."

"You promised me a job."

"But as far as I remember, I didn't make any promises about what that job would be."

Trixie gritted her teeth and took a step closer. "I swear to God, Tommy Shelby. If you plan on keeping this up, I'm going to—"

He craned his neck, bending his face closer to hers. "You're going to _what?"_

A man Trixie recognized from the betting shop passed by them, a woman by his side, and almost instinctively, Tommy seized her waist and pulled her bodily against him. She squeaked as she stumbled forward, colliding with his chest. When she looked up, his smile was warm and almost convincingly affectionate, ruined only by the piercing cold of his eyes. "I'm going to strangle you," she mumbled sweetly, masking her words with an equally saccharine smile.

"Is that a promise?" he retorted, his hands still solidly against her waist. It didn't have the totally disarming effect it had had the last time, but Trixie still had to try extra hard to remain focused on the task at hand. They were so close; he was holding her so tightly.

Two could play at this game. Trixie pushed herself up on her tiptoes, kissing him on the cheek before dropping her heel down onto his foot, hard. He flinched, just barely, and released her from his grip. Trixie took two steps back and brushed off her dress. "What the hell is your plan, Tommy? Who do you suppose is going to be working your books if I'm busy in witness _fucking_ protection?"

"It's only going to be for a week. By the time the money from the races comes in, I promise you'll be back."

"As an accountant," Trixie clarified.

"As an accountant," Tommy agreed. "Tell him you'd still like to be able to see Polly and Ada, say women need to gossip with each other."

"As if men don't do most of the talking in this town."

"Men do," Tommy conceded. "But the Inspector doesn't operate with facts, he operates with his ego. You think he regards women highly?" She kept her lips sealed shut. It was a good enough point. "You'll keep meeting with them, from time to time, _alone_. But the officers'll stay close by to escort you."

"And why?" Trixie asked. "Why do I need protection?"

Tommy shrugged. "I've gotten us involved in a disagreement of sorts with another family. They know better than to touch Polly or Ada, but you're not one of us."

"Aw, you care if I come out of it alive?" Trixie asked.

Ignoring her, he continued, "If they do go after you, the Inspector's men will take them out. Two birds, one stone."

She considered this. It was a well-thought-out plan, as most of his were, but he had a habit of withholding information. She'd distract Campbell tonight, during the raid. Receive a likely disguised officer to escort her to her home and to the house on Wednesdays, to _gossip_ , as Tommy had said, but also to keep up the facade that she needed to act natural around the Shelbys, and disappearing for a week wouldn't do any good. If the other family attacked, the Peaky Blinders would stay out of it. And if they didn't, the worst that would happen would be Trixie being watched for a few days. Annoying, yes. But preferable to being killed.

"Fine," she agreed. "You swear I'll be back on Friday?"

Tommy cocked his head to the side, offering his hand for her to shake. Trixie accepted, and then pulled away. "I suppose I ought to get on with looking distressed," she said.

"Damsel," he said, as a sort of farewell.

"Dearest," Trixie sneered in return. She threw her shoulders back and the jacket slid off easily. After balling it up in her hands, she shoved it into Tommy's chest and turned back inside, pushing through the crowd of gamblingmen and other accountants. Her beeline towards the dining room was cut short abruptly by a hand on her shoulder, and she skidded to a stop, prepared to curse out whichever spoiled man had laid a hand on her. But it was only John, grinning fiendishly.

"Heard you're engaged to my brother," he remarked. "Does that make you a Shelby after all, then?"

Trixie glowered. "Oh, please."

"Careful, Trix. You'll hurt my feelings. I'd be honored to have you as my sister."

"Trust me," she assured him. "That's not the part that offends me about the engagement."

He laughed. "And what is?"

She folded her arms across her chest and leaned back against the table in the center of the betting hall. "I don't even like your brother as a person."

John followed suit, leaning next to her. "Sometimes, I wish you'd met him before the war."

"Really?" Trixie asked. "Why's that?"

"Oh, I think you're exactly what he would've needed at the time. You would've matched him well."

"He told me he was worse before."

"He was a damn lothario, yeah, but he wasn't such an insufferable prick. You wouldn't have put up with the nonsense, and then he would've learned to treat you well."

It was odd to envision a somehow more egotistical Tommy, and then ever stranger to imagine that that version of him would have treated Trixie better than the one she got stuck with, but what was the point of imagining it at all? A thousand things could have gone differently, but they hadn't. The Tommy Shelby she knew was terrorized by the war, yes, but he was also manipulative and rude.

And honestly speaking—just as Tommy had been changed by the things he'd seen, so had Trixie. She wasn't always headstrong, she wasn't always willing to do whatever it took to survive. If Tommy had approached her, lothario and all, she might have fallen for it, and that was certainly a worse fate than the one she'd been dealt. To be the girl on his arm, chasing after him while he chased other women, was the last thing Trixie wanted.

"He'll learn to treat me well now," Trixie said. "I won't accept less."

John shrugged, reaching inside the pocket of his coat for a flask and taking a sip. He offered it to her, but she waved it away.

"It's Sunday," she reminded him.

"A clearly well-honored tradition," he retorted, gesturing around at the swarms of men laying bets. Trixie smacked him on the shoulder, and he bust out laughing again. "Oh, Trixie. You'll never be rotten enough for a place like this."

It felt like a challenge. It felt like a dare.

She didn't know it yet, but it was one she would grow to accept.

* * *

"I need to speak with the Inspector. _Please_."

Trixie jutted out her bottom lip, attempting to make it quiver, as the officer manning the Birmingham Police Department's desk watched her with a look of fear. Men hated when women cried, Trixie knew this. It frightened them to be out of control. "What's the name, Miss?" he hurried to ask, bolting out of his chair and rummaging through the papers on the desk.

"Beatrice Price," she replied. "He might also know me as Beatrice....Shelby." Saying it aloud made her sick, and for once, she leaned into the feeling. If she was to be as distressed as Tommy wanted her to be, she was going to need to imagine a wedding and subsequent wedding night. The idea nearly made her gag.

The officer excused himself from the desk, disappearing behind a heavy wooden door in search of the Inspector. All her years in Birmingham, and her more recent ones on the wrong side of the law, and Trixie had still never been inside the police station. It felt like a haunted house, though she couldn't explain why. It just seemed like more of an absence than anything else.

She peered over the front desk, eying the mess of paper in search of anything useful. Nothing good—just a half-finished crossword puzzle ridden with misspellings.

"For _tune_ ," she muttered. "What the hell is a for-tion?"

"Mrs. Shelby?"

Trixie jerked her head up, hurrying to replace the distressed expression on her face. "Yes, sir?"

He waved at her. "He'll see you, now, if you'd like. Come back with me, please."

This was the nicest a cop had ever been to her. Trixie smiled as sweetly as she could, pretending to wipe a tear away under her eye. "Oh, thank you, Officer. Thank you so much."

He nodded, leading her down a shadowy hallway towards a massive office. The wooden desk in the center of the room stretched wide enough to humble even Campbell, who appeared comically small behind it. He gave her a look of deep pity, dismissing the officer who had led her into the office. Trixie heard the door shut behind her.

"Thank you for seeing me, Inspector, I know it's quite late."

The bonfire would be in full force now, Trixie guessed. She needed to keep Campbell busy enough for Tommy to finish his interview without interruption.

"Of course, Miss Price," he responded, standing and crossing his desk to pull the armchair back so she could sit down. Trixie sank delicately into the chair, keeping her spine straight and her purse on her lap, a picture of ladylikeness to mask her real intentions. "Has something happened?" he asked, returning to his own chair and slumping back into it.

Trixie swallowed and took a deep breath. "Tommy was very upset about the raids. I'm—I'm worried about what he might do."

He leaned forward on his elbows. "Tell me what happened, Beatrice."

She hated the sound of her name in his mouth. "He and the rest of the men in his family returned from the fair this afternoon and—um, well, he was quite angry that you'd intruded on his territory. I feel that the pressure is growing—which is good, believe me—I want this to be over more than anybody. But I worry about what may happen to me as the stress gets to him."

"I see," mused Campbell, picking a pen up from the jar on his desk and fiddling with it. "Well, that is a dilemma. I wouldn't want to risk you getting hurt."

"I don't want the investigation to stop," Trixie said. "But, well, I was wondering if I could possibly...well, this sounds silly." She forced a laugh. "I was wondering if it was possible to have somebody protecting me."

Campbell considered this as he rubbed his thumb along the line of his mustache. "I'd have to have an officer in from somewhere else, to ensure that the Shelbys don't recognize him."

"If it's too much trouble, it's no worry," Trixie said. "I'll just—I'll manage."

"No, we can't have you in danger." He stared off at a point on the wall behind her. Trixie wanted to turn around and inspect what, exactly, he was fixated on, but she managed to hold still enough to keep his attention. "There's an officer I worked with in Manchester, who was looking for a transfer to be closer to his family in London. I'll give him a call now, and hopefully we can have him here by tomorrow morning. Will you be alright until then?"

Trixie nodded. "I...I think so, thank you."

Campbell stood up. "I'll go give him a call now, excuse me."

As he headed past her into the adjoining office, Trixie maintained her defeated facade. By the time he was outside, she'd smoothed out her appearance and leaned forward to inspect the contents of the Inspector's desk. It was mostly bare, save for a leather journal with a pen sandwiched between two pages in the middle of the book..

She cast a look over her shoulder to see if Campbell was watching her, but he was too busy trying to dial a phone number to notice.

Trixie slid her hand across the desk, pressing her finger between the bookmarked pages and flipping it open quickly. The pages fluttered out as the cover swung to the side, revealing a web of sorts—no. A plan.

In the center of the web, circled, was Arthur's name, but it had been scratched out. Beneath it, the Inspector had scrawled down _Tommy_.

The surrounding names were connected to Tommy's by arrows. At the top, _Dirty Officers - not much to say, except that bribes took place._ Below that, _Polly - devoted to family, will not sell out - own children?_ Next one down was _Chinese quarter - sealed tight._

By now, Trixie had realized that these were Campbell's ways towards the Shelbys. To Tommy, in particular. At the bottom of the page, _Agent G._ G?

G as in Grace?

She wished she could take the journal and present it to Polly and Tommy, if only to prove that she'd been right about the strange woman. But Trixie had enough sense not to ruin her mission for the sake of her pride.

The last of the names so far, circled and starred, was her own. _Beatrice Price - fiance. Not involved with business, willing to serve as an informant - a bit dumb, but potentially helpful._

Wait a fucking minute. Trixie scanned the line again. _A bit dumb?_

_Un-fucking-believable._

The floorboard creaked behind her. Trixie jumped, flipping the journal shut quickly and slamming into the back of the chair hard enough to send it tilting back. As the chair wobbled, she threw her hands out towards the desk, gripping it to steady herself. " _Christ_ ," she muttered, then craned her neck around to see if the Inspector was returning.

He was talking to an officer now, and he was the one who looked distressed. Trixie tilted her head, trying to make out what she could of the conversation.

"The London line?" Campbell was saying. "It's almost midnight."

The other officer replied, "It's Mr. Winston Churchill, sir."

Churchill. Trixie turned back to the desk, smiling thinly. Tommy's stupid plan had worked after all. The bonfire, the journalist, the pictures of the King. It was all going to come back to Campbell. They didn't necessarily have any power over him, but they could aggravate those who did. In this case, the higher ups in London. She leaned back, holding her breath to hear the telephone conversation better.

"Yes Sir?" Campbell greeted. He paused. "Well, there was a small fire reported at around nine o'clock on Watery Lane. Certainly nothing to trouble you about, sir." Another pause. "Of the King?...I'll go down there and make arrests immediately....Right, sir. We are making steady progress." Then, "Sir, if I could at least ask...does this report name any of those involved?"

Here was the warning. The Shelbys never did any work without signing their name.

The long silence that followed drew Trixie's attention, and she turned around, feigning innocent curiosity. "Is everything alright, Inspector?" she called.

"Er—yes, just one second," he replied, though his voice was uneven. "Let me make the call to my friend."

"Thank you," she replied, turning back ahead and following the lines of the stained-glass window above the Inspector's desk. It was a very Catholic design for an Office of the Crown, a mosaic of broken glass in bright colors that cast an odd glow over Trixie's skin when she lifted her hand to observe. Campbell was on the phone behind her, but she was less interested in this conversation of train tickets and surveillance. When he did finally return to the office, he looked somewhat recovered from Churchill's admonition, though still shaken. "Are you alright, Sir?"

"Oh, yes. It just appears your husband is out causing trouble yet again."

Trixie sighed. "I wish I could say I expected better, but that would be a lie, and my father raised me to be honest."

"I appreciate that honesty, believe me," Campbell said. "We should have someone down to protect you by tomorrow. A Mr. James Bradley. We can't have your husband know he's working for me, so he'll be posing as your neighbor. James is quite intelligent, you see, he has a high degree from Cambridge, so I think it would be best to have him pose as an academic, or something of the sort."

"What would an academic be doing here?" Trixie asked.

"The Birmingham Technical School is open still, isn't it?"

"It is," said Trixie. "Small Heath is a bit of a shite neighborhood for a professor though."

Campbell shrugged. "Times are tough. You think your husband'll ask as many questions as you do?"

"He's a very careful man," Trixie said. "I only know it'll make things worse if he finds out the truth."

Trixie probably didn't need to ask as many questions as she was, but a not insignificant part of her enjoyed watching the Inspector struggle to come up with answers. He had some ego calling _her_ dumb, when he couldn't even come up with a convincing undercover story. He'd failed with Grace, and he was failing again with James Bradley, whoever the hell that was. People loved to underestimate her, and though it was usually to their own detriment, it didn't get any less annoying for Trixie to put up with.

"As long as I'm here, you have no reason to be afraid," Campbell assured her. He reached across the desk and put his hand over Trixie's. It was unusually clammy and hot, and it took all her strength not to squirm. The complete irony of the mess she'd gotten herself into wasn't lost on her; in the last few weeks, she'd learned to accept that nothing was going to make sense anymore.

"Thank you," she said, sniffling and pretending to wipe away a tear. "You have no idea how glad I am that you've come to Birmingham."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello !! Early update ! We've got some more undercover lovers, slimy Campbell, and badass Polly Shelby this chapter, as well as a little of Trixie and John's friendship :)
> 
> Thank you to everyone who voted and commented last chapter! Please let me know what you thought of this chapter as well if you feel so inclined! Also, if you'd like to check out edits and other things feel free to visit me at suethor dot tumblr dot com ! My askbox is open if you'd like to ask any questions about the story and what's to come 
> 
> **Chapter 8** / _A Very Pregnant Pause_
> 
> "Who's the handsome man lurking outside?" Ada asked Trixie, pulling her knees up to her chest.
> 
> "My cop bodyguard," Trixie replied. She cast a look out her window. He was handsome, with his chiseled jaw and warm smile; she would have to give Ada credit for that.
> 
> "Careful," Ada teased, a sly grin crossing her face. "Or Tommy'll get jealous." 


	9. A Very Pregnant Pause

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listen to this chapter’s soundtrack [here.](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0icDAFO9QL9FjtTYiBcHES?si=8bTTkKz9S_mfMtrG0bC6BA)

* * *

" _And God blessed Noah and his sons and said to them, "Be fruitful and multiply and fill the earth."_ –Genesis 9:1

* * *

Trixie woke the next morning to a knock on her door. This was becoming a habit, and not one she was all too fond of. As she peered through the window, she caught a glance of an unfamiliar man, crowned with blonde hair and dressed neatly in a suit. If not for the pleasant smile on his face, she might have mistaken him for one of the Peaky Blinders.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

"Hello," he greeted, smiling brightly. "I'm Professor James Bradley."

 _Professor, eh?_ "What can I do for you, professor?" Trixie asked, poking her head out the door and pretending to check for witnesses.

"Can I borrow some sugar?" he asked. His accent was posh-London smooth, his voice rich and deep.

She opened the door wider. "Come in."

"Thank you," he said, stepping in carefully and hovering tentatively by the door. As soon as it had shut, he turned back to her and said, "Sorry, had to get the formalities out of the way. Let me reintroduce myself—my name is Officer James Bradley, formerly of the Manchester Police. Inspector Campbell has invited me to the city to act as your personal guard."

Trixie nodded, still blinking the sleep out of her eyes and trying to process this. As if the constantly-being-woken-up wasn't bad enough, she'd begun having the most awful nightmares about Luca over the past few weeks. Every night, she lay her head down and opened her eyes inside a military plane, Luca in the pilot's seat and her strapped to the copilot's chair.

" _Where are we going?"_ she always asked. She didn't know why she always asked—the answer never changed.

" _We're going to the Barren Desert where the sky is always purple, Bea,"_ Luca replied. " _We just have to make a stop on the way."_

And then, like clockwork, he would yank back the control lever and send them climbing up an invisible mountain in the sky, steep and unstable, and just as soon as she started to think she could make out a peak, just as soon as they were approaching it and ready to level out, a rapid spray of bullets would clang against the plane's wings, shattering the windshield. That was the bad part, but not the worst part. The worst part was that, every night, Trixie would turn and find that a bullet had cut straight through Luca's forehead. In a miserable, drawn-out motion, his head, eyes rolled back, a thick line of blood running down his brow, collapsed forward onto his hands.

And Trixie couldn't do anything. The buckles on her seatbelt locked, and Luca, slumped over the control levers, sent them always in a nosedive that morphed into freefall that ended with Trixie trying to remember the words to the Ave Maria and always forgetting, tumbling downward in that blue sky she had grown so obsessed with, losing track of which way was heavenward and which way pointed towards the earth, knowing nothing but the unreckonable fact that she was going to die now, tonight, and also that she and Luca would not end up in the same place when she did.

Each night for the last few weeks, she'd woken around three, right before Luca's plane slammed into the ground, and then had to wrestle with her terror and aloneness until she could bargain a few more hours of rest—and now, those few hours had been cut tragically short by a copper who had been sent to protect her from the Shelby Family, who, miraculously, were the only ones truly on her side.

"Shall I list my qualifications for your approval, Mrs. Shelby?" James asked.

"Miss Price," Trixie corrected.

A charming grin claimed his visage. "Ah, pardon me, Miss Price. Well, my father sent me to Cambridge for my degree, where I studied botany. Following that, I attended the London Police Academy at age eighteen and graduated top of my class. After two years of service to my city, I enlisted in the King's army to fight for our great country. From there, I rose to the rank of Corporal and eventually returned home to serve as a Sergeant for the Manchester Police. And now, here I am."

"Here you are," Trixie repeated, nodding dumbly. She wasn't sure what to make of James so far except that he was exceptionally chatty and in a swell mood despite it being six in the morning, so she just blinked at him some more before turning to put a kettle on the stove. "Tea?" she asked.

"Oh, no thank you. Caffeine corrupts the nervous system."

"Right," Trixie mumbled, grateful her back was to him so she was free to express her confusion without him witnessing it. "So, how did you like Botany as a subject?"

"It was quite interesting, I admit," James replied. "I have gardeners who manage my main estate, so I don't really have the opportunity to practice as much anymore, sadly."

"Fire your gardeners," Trixie suggested. "It'll give you the opportunity to practice."

James let out a hearty laugh. "You're funny, Miss Price. I can tell this assignment is going to be a pleasurable experience for both of us."

She cast her eyes upward at the ceiling. _Dear Lord, I know I have sinned but please let my path back to the light be etched in the dirt by someone besides James Bradley._ When no immediate message from heaven arrived as her salvation, she figured that this was her sign from God to deal with the mess she'd made on her own.

"Mhm," she agreed. "But really, Mr. Bradley," Trixie insisted, tossing an aggressively false smile over her shoulder, "The pleasure's all mine."

* * *

Trixie hadn't realized how badly she could miss Polly until she'd spent five hours straight with James in her apartment, inspecting her bookshelf and offering his lukewarm opinions on her favorite books.

"I found _Pygmalion_ so charming," James had remarked, thumbing through her copy. Then, he'd picked up _The Secret Garden._ "This one was difficult to like. It's a bit childish." He'd dismissed her Austen as too apolitical, her copy of _My Bondage and My Freedom_ as too politically involved, and dubbed _The Scarlet Letter_ "The best book mankind has produced yet." Eventually, Trixie had realized that James was just choosing any book with a woman on the cover and calling it simple, and that he hadn't actually read most of the books he was picking up from her shelf, with the exception of _The Scarlet Letter_ , only because he'd managed to misinterpret it so badly but in a way that indicated a grasp of its general plotline. As for his dismissal of Frederick Douglass, Trixie would put her money on racism. She'd snatched it away from him, not bothering to hide her contempt, and placed it gently back on the shelf.

Now, after he'd dropped her off at 5 Watery Lane with the promise to return for her that afternoon, she felt as though a physical weight had been lifted off her shoulders. Interacting with James was what she imagined being buried under a pile of sopping wet towels and then being made to stand up felt like—a strong, persistent desire to give up if only to escape one's misery.

"Trixie, good to see you," Polly greeted. "I've got fresh bread, if you'd like. Jam, too."

"Thank you, Polly," Trixie said. She dropped her things on the table and made a beeline for the loaf. Back at her apartment, some instinct had kicked in that had pressed her to keep moving in the face of danger, and she'd been too unnerved by James' constant jabbering to sit down for long enough to eat. As a result, she'd arrived at the Shelby House half-starved and desperate for something other than tea.

After she'd fixed herself a plate, Trixie took a seat next to Polly. The older woman had the papers flipped open in front of her, and was scanning the pages carefully. Trixie didn't get the paper—it was expensive to have it delivered to her apartment, and she had learned to be frugal even now, when she had more than enough money to spend. Usually, she would pick up the papers left behind by the men at work, or Polly would pass it onto her after she'd finished her daily reading. Such was the case on this particular occasion—after another long moment of skimming the pages, Polly folded it back in half and handed it to Trixie.

They were silent, Trixie reading and Polly sipping on her tea, when Ada arrived downstairs.

"Good of you to join us," Polly greeted, not nearly as friendly as the words made it seem. "Where have you been all day?"

Sawing at the bread with a knife, Ada replied, "In bed. Couldn't sleep. Then I couldn't wake up. Then...I was _cold,_ and _then_ I had to go for a wee. Then I was with this bear on a boat, but that was a dream."

"A relief, I'm sure," Trixie teased.

Ada cast her a look of mock-surprise, before narrowing her eyes challengingly. " _Yes_ ," she stated matter-of-factly. "It absolutely was." She brought her plate and the jar of jam over to the table setting both down gingerly and collapsing down into the chair right after. "Anyway, since that was a dream, there's no point talking about it. What I want to know is who the handsome man who walked you over was, Trix." She pulled her knees up to her chest and tore a piece off the bread.

"Glad to know you were awake in time to watch me through the window," Trixie muttered, feigning bitterness, and Ada smacked her on the shoulder. Trixie pushed her back gently. "He's my cop bodyguard," she explained, rolling her eyes. James _was_ handsome, with his chiseled jaw and warm smile; she would have to give Ada credit for that. If only he didn't have the personality of a block of wood.

"Careful," Ada teased, a sly grin crossing her face. "Or Tommy'll get jealous. His fiance spending time with another man, and all."

"This cop is the one man that actually makes Tommy's company seem pleasant," Trixie said. "He's handsome, sure, but there's nothing else going on behind it all except Daddy's money and almost religious-loyalty to the crown."

"Oh, ew," Ada frowned, chewing her bread sloppily. It was nice to be just them three, no men. Like it had been during the war, before Trixie's life had become an elaborate piece of performance art. "Anything interesting in the paper?"

Trixie shrugged, deferring to Polly. "BSA are on strike," Polly said. "Miners are on strike. IRA are killing our boys, ten a day…" She drifted off, seemingly lost in some tangent. Trixie turned back to the paper, inspecting the advertisements. Cough medicine was on sale again, with no promise of it actually working. And furs, apparently, at a luxury shop in London that would mail the garments to her. Trixie folded the page around that particular advertisement, drawing her nail along the crease, and then tearing it carefully down the line. "Stand up."

Trixie looked up. "Me?"

Polly shook her head. "No. No, Ada."

"Why?" Ada asked around a mouthful of toast.

"Just stand up," Polly repeated.

Ada sighed and brushed her hands together to clean them. Then, as if humoring a senile grandmother, she stood up from the chair and held her hands out expectantly towards Polly.

"Side on," Polly instructed, and Ada turned. Trixie folded the newspaper shut, abandoning the fur ads in favor of trying to figure out what was going on—what Polly was looking at. Suddenly, Polly reached out for Ada's chest, grabbing onto it roughly.

"What are you _doing?"_ Ada cried, leaping about a foot in the air as she stumbled back.

"Ada," warned Polly. The Shelby girl cast a nervous, confused glance in Trixie's direction, but Trixie just shrugged. "How late are you?"

Late? Trixie's eyes slid back and forth between the two women; meanwhile, Ada's gaze dropped shamefully to the floor. She folded her arms across her chest self-consciously, and then admitted, "One week." A pause, where nobody said anything, and then Ada corrected, "Alright, _five_ weeks." She huffed, as if Polly had tortured the answer out of her. "Seven if you count weekends."

" _Seven weeks?_ " Trixie exclaimed, glancing sideways up at Polly. "Ada…"

"I think it's a lack of iron!" she protested. "I got some tablets."

"For _seven weeks?"_ Trixie added. "If it's been seven weeks and they haven't worked, it might be something else." _Might_ was an understatement, but she was trying to be as delicate with the news.

Polly lowered herself into the chair slowly, and Ada followed. Trixie pushed the newspaper to the side.

"What am I supposed to do?" Ada asked.

"Ideally, mention that you're late before it's been seven weeks," Polly muttered.

"I thought it was a lack of iron!" Ada protested. Her lip began to quiver and she swiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. "God, I feel stupid."

"My dear girl," Polly said, reaching across for her and taking her hands, "You are not stupid. You did a stupid thing, I'll give you that, but you're going to be alright."

Trixie reached over to take Ada's other hand. "You will," she agreed. "No matter what, we're here. We'll be here."

Ada sniffled, her eyes shielded as she hid her face between her knees. "Oh, god, what am I going to do? What am I supposed to do now?"

Her immediate answer to Ada's question was to tell the father—and after three years of friendship, Trixie had a fairly good guess as to who it was. The Shelby girl's fondness for Freddie Thorne had never been a well-kept secret until Tommy's storming through town necessitated it be, but Trixie had known Ada longer than Tommy had been terrorizing Small Heath. The stories Ada told were straight out of a film: before the war, she'd had a schoolgirl crush on Freddie, who had kissed her right before departing for France. She'd spent a year writing about it in her diary before deciding to move onto better things, and by the time he'd returned, Ada was no longer the lovesick kid sister of his best friend; now, she was a force of nature, handling enough of the betting and the business to make her as much a Peaky Blinder as any of her brothers.

Ada's involvement had since declined, but Trixie always noticed the lovebites on her neck she tried to hide with her hair, or the dishevelled clothes worn two days in a row. It was her job to notice things; she couldn't turn that part of her brain off when she clocked out of work for the day.

"Let's not fret quite yet," Polly said. "We'll go to the clinic, alright? And see if you are. Maybe you were right, and it's just iron." She eyed Ada warily. "And the bump on your stomach has been caused by something else."

Ada lifted her head, looking miserable. "I'm sorry, Polly."

"Don't you dare apologize to me," Polly returned immediately, standing from her chair. "I'll call the doctor and see if we can make you an appointment. In the meantime—Trixie, can you make her some tea?"

"Sure," Trixie said, standing up and digging the kettle out of the cabinet. She turned on the faucet and let the water run for a few seconds before holding the kettle under it. After she'd placed it on the stove, she returned to the table, casting a sideways look out the door to ensure Polly was still upstairs. "Ada," she said, grabbing onto her friend's hand. "This is good news, yes?" she whispered.

With a weak smile, Ada replied, "I want it to be."

"Where is he?" Trixie asked. "I mean—it's _him,_ right?"

Ada nodded vigorously. "Oh—yes. I mean, there's nobody else. I wouldn't—no. I love him. Only him."

"And he loves you?" Trixie asked, holding her breath. She prayed that the answer was yes.

When Ada continued nodding, she exhaled with relief. "He says so," Ada supplied. "But I don't—I don't know where he is."

"Wh— _oh."_ The raids yesterday. She'd been so focused on hiding everything at the shop that she hadn't realized that the coppers were looking for communists along with the guns Tommy had stolen. Freddie, in addition to being the subject of Ada's affections, also happened to be one of the biggest communist agitators in the city, a fact that would never do him well in a confrontation with law enforcement. "Did they take him?" she asked, already trying to think of ways she could use whatever odd partnership she had with Campbell to get Freddie out.

"No, they didn't get him," Ada assured her. "They almost did, but...he had me hid and then he left. I don't know where he went. I don't know when he's coming back—or _if_ he's coming back, even. Oh my God, Trixie, I've gotten myself into such a fucking mess."

"Ada," said Trixie, standing from her chair and moving one over, so she was next to her. "Look at me."

Ada did, rubbing at her eyes again.

"I can guarantee you, nothing you are doing right now is anywhere near as bad as even the best things your brothers have done, alright? They—I mean. They've got Winston Churchill up their arses, and they're—well, they're terrible personality-wise." Despite her tears, Ada laughed, and Trixie smiled. "Not to mention—the hat doesn't suit Arthur at all, you know? It's sort of a dumb accessory for a big scary gang—well, that's off topic." She took a deep breath. "Even if everything manages to go wrong, it will be nothing worse than a regular Tuesday with the Shelbys. And you'll always have me, yeah?"

Ada sniffled. "Alright." After a moment of consideration, she asked, "Do you want children, Trixie? If you get married for real?"

Trixie laughed. "I don't think I'd be a very good mother."

"Oh, come on," said Ada. "Why do you say that?"

There were an infinitude of reasons she could come up with, but the biggest of them all was that Trixie had never had a mother herself. The closest thing she had was Polly, and they had only known each other three years; Polly was her boss, who cared for her as she cared for anyone else involved in the business. The other reason, though, was that Trixie hated the idea of having children with anyone but Luca. He had always been so delicate with his baby sister and young cousins, so kind and loving to them to make up for Trixie's standoffishness. Never again would she meet a man who could balance that.

"I just doubt I'll fall in love again," Trixie admitted. "Luca was all I wanted, I don't know if anybody else could match up."

"You'll love again," Ada promised.

"I just don't think I'm meant for that type of thing anymore," Trixie disagreed.

Polly's heavy footsteps echoed down the staircase as she returned back downstairs. "Good news," she announced. "She'll see you tonight."

"I'll come with you?" Trixie offered, partially to support Ada, and more selfishly, to avoid James.

"Thank you," Ada said. "When?" she asked Polly.

"Five o'clock," Polly replied. "We'll have to go in disguise, I'll loan you both veils. Trixie, can you get your bodyguard to back down for the night?"

She didn't know where, exactly, he'd went after dropping her off, but surely she could assure him when he came around at three to pick her up—as in, _walk ten feet behind her on the sidewalk the entire way home—_ that she would be fine to get around without his assistance or accompaniment. "Yes," she said. "I'll have to let him know when he's about to come pick me up."

"Why _do_ you have a bodyguard?" Ada asked. "A bit antithetical to the whole organized crime business."

"Tommy told me to distract Campbell during the bonfire," Trixie explained. "I ran out of ideas." Polly, she assumed, was not yet aware of the fact that Tommy had started a gang war, and she was a good enough woman to honor the deal she'd made with him to let him take charge. "Anyway, I said that the raids had made him angry, or something of the sort, and Campbell wanted to make sure I was being protected."

"So now you have a cop trailing you," Polly surmised.

"I'll lose him by the end of the week," Trixie promised. "I'll just say that dear Tommy and I are friends again, and we can go back to me talking to cops on strictly planned occasions."

Polly pointed at her. "I'll hold you to that."

Trixie smiled. "I'd expect nothing less."

* * *

Across town that night, Trixie sat in a rickety wooden chair by Ada's side as a nurse inspected her. Ada gripped Trixie's hand with such force it seemed like she was already in the process of giving birth. The dark, candlelit room was scary enough on its own—add invasive medical procedures and the weight of all that was at stake, and Trixie couldn't blame Ada for being afraid. Polly had insisted on remaining outside, where she could scope out any passersby who might cause trouble and _dissuade_ them from doing so, so the two women were alone, save for the rather large elephant in the room.

Despite the optimism she'd tried to impart on her, Trixie couldn't shake her panic. It wasn't that she wasn't happy for Ada—it was clear that she and Freddie were in love—it was just happening at probably the worst time. They were being targeted by a major investigation, Tommy had started a gang war, Communists were being run out of town, and they were in the middle of a power-change. It wasn't like she planned on bringing any of these things up. The situation was stressful enough, but it was worth thinking about now before things crept up on her.

"You can sit up now, love," the nurse said, leaning back and standing up. She brought her tools over to the sink for washing, and Ada did as she was told, swinging her legs back over gently and folding her hands across her lap. She stretched her arms out, swinging her legs back and forth as she waited for the nurse to tell her what was going on.

After another long moment of fidgeting, Ada looked up at the nurse. "So am I? Or not?"

The nurse sighed. Trixie held her breath. Ada clutched her hand desperately. Then, a nod.

Pregnant.

Ada's hand fell slack, and Trixie grabbed onto it before it fell down to her lap. "Oh, God," Ada cried.

The nurse nodded again, a pitiful look in her eyes. "I'll leave you to get dressed, then."

She stepped outside, shutting the door behind her. While Ada was in shock, Trixie knew that they needed to get out of this part of town soon, so she stood up and grabbed Ada's overdress, bunching it up. Ada stood, still numb, and Trixie dropped it over the top of her head so she could slip her arms back into her sleeves. "I'm pregnant," Ada mumbled. "I'm—I'm not even _married_."

"We can talk about it with Polly outside, alright?" Trixie said.

Ada nodded, stepping into her shoes and reaching for her coat. "What a mess."

"Regular Tuesday," Trixie reminded her. "It'll be alright."

Outside, after Polly had settled their bill with a very well-practiced glare, Trixie hung back and pulled a cigarette from her purse.

"I'm going to need one of those," Ada said. Trixie handed it over wordlessly, pulled out another for herself, and then found her matches to light both of their smokes.

"Girls!" Polly scolded, her voice low but forceful nonetheless. "Keep bloody walking. If anybody sees us here, they'll know."

While Trixie had been making an honest effort to be positive about everything going on, Polly wasn't taking quite as well to the news. And what did Trixie know? She'd never been pregnant, she'd barely been a child. Polly had been a mother, once; it was safe to assume her opinion held more weight.

"I'm not getting rid of it, Aunt Pol," Ada announced.

Trixie tried to keep the surprise off her face. It was a ballsy choice—but it wasn't exactly out of character for Ada.

With her hand tight on Ada's arm, Polly replied, "Let's just get home, and then we'll talk about it."

Ada skidded to a stop. "You get off me or I'll scream it. I swear."

It was a hell of a bargaining chip. Trixie blew out a cloud of smoke, impressed. Personally, she had no opinion on what Ada decided to do with the pregnancy, besides believing that Ada should be the one to make that decision. If she did decide to have the baby, it would certainly be trouble, but what wasn't? A baby hardly measured up to the worst she'd dealt with.

Two men passed them, eyeing Trixie and Ada. One of them elbowed the other, muttering, "Quite a slag that one, eh?"

"What was that?" Trixie asked, smiling politely.

"Huh?" the first man asked.

"Sorry, I just didn't hear what you said. Care to repeat it?"

They exchanged a glance. The one on the left, shorter and stockier, spit at her feet. "Piss off, you bitch."

"Yeah, alright," Trixie called after them. "Keep walking, cowards."

When they'd disappeared around the corner, she made a face at the spot where they'd paused, and then turned back to Polly and Ada. They were now anchored in the middle of the street, exchanging harsh mutterings. "You want to do this on the street?" Polly asked. "Alright, let's do it. Whose is it?"

Ada said nothing, so Polly turned to Trixie.

"I assume you know," she said.

Polly glanced at Ada, who was pleading with her eyes at her. There was no need—she had no plans of revealing her secret. "I haven't a clue," she said smoothly.

"Liar," Polly accused, but she seemed mildly impressed.

"Look," Ada interrupted. "If I tell you, you'll tell them, and they'll cut him to pieces."

It was a fair enough point—the Shelby men were devoutly protective of Ada, despite the fact that she was in her mid-twenties now and more than capable of making her own decisions. If anything, she had taken the lead with Freddie, not the other way around.

"Not if he marries you, they won't," Polly returned.

Ada folded her arms over her chest. Trixie wanted to laugh at how many of the Shelbys were suddenly entertaining the idea of matrimony, but she resisted the urge.

"Will he marry you?" Polly asked, sounding like she was devoting a very large amount of energy to remaining calm.

She took a long drag from her cigarette, avoiding Polly's eyes, and exhaled. The streetlights illuminated the smoke spirals, and Trixie watched them dissipate as Ada avoided the question. "I don't know," she finally admitted. "I don't know where he is."

"Jesus _Christ,_ Ada!" Polly hissed, smacking her on the arm.

"He's gone away, but he said he'll come back," she explained, defensive.

" _Yeah,_ but they _all say they'll come back!"_

"He's not like that!" Ada protested. "He's a good man, he promised." Her voice had grown wobbly and breathy, straining with tears, and Polly reached out to cradle her face before deferring to Trixie for confirmation.

"Is he?"

Trixie chewed the inside of her cheek. She hated lying to Polly. Freddie Thorne was not the kind of man to promise he'd come back without the intention of following through...but he was also the kind of man who was being hunted by Inspector Campbell for his attempts to incite revolution. It was hard to say. For Ada's sake, though, she weighed the first assessment of his character heavier than the second, and said, "No. I don't think he'd lie."

Polly sighed.

"He will come back, Aunt Poll," Ada insisted. "I know he will."

Gathering her into a hug, Polly pulled Ada close, offering her shoulder to carry her sobs. Over Ada's shoulder, she met Trixie's eyes. Dread like Trixie had never seen was sharp on Polly's face, and she reached out for Trixie's hand behind Ada's back. It was clear enough to the both of them that Ada had no intention of getting rid of it.

What that meant, though? Neither of them could say for certain.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hello, thanks for reading! I hope you are all doing well and staying safe despite everything. This chapter gave us introductions to a new character, James Bradley, who is deeply deeply annoying. We also got more of Trixie's relationships with Ada and Polly, which are honestly some of my favorites to write? I really enjoy how they get along, and how honest she can be with them. Let me know what you think as well! No Trixie/Tommy this chapter, but there's more coming up soon and it's gonna get very real !
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who commented last chapter!! I really love reading all your comments, please let me know what you thought of this chapter as well and I'll see you all soon :)
> 
>  **Chapter 9** / _Better the Devil She Knows_
> 
> "He's handsome, eh?" Tommy asked. "Never thought of you as the type to fall for a copper."
> 
> "Never thought of myself as the type of person to falsify an engagement to you, either," Trixie retorted. "And anyway, not that it's your business, but I don't fancy him. He's poorly read and feels the need to share his opinions nonetheless."
> 
> "Not my business?" said Tommy dubiously. He didn't comment on the rest of the information she'd relayed.
> 
> Trixie rolled her eyes. "You know we're not actually engaged, right?"


	10. Better the Devil She Knows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listen to this chapter’s soundtrack [here.](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7GJHbbId7uRXRE819ibhZk?si=1m92pBViTZqm1AcPBFefLg)

* * *

" _I saw Satan fall like lightning from heaven."_ —Luke 10:18

* * *

The Shelby betting parlor was packed after Monaghan Boy's win, everyone vying for the chance to put money on the magic horse before the race that afternoon. As business improved, Trixie's hours at the shop increased, and she was falling behind in her counting. Notes kept piling up on the table, amounts counted and passed onto her and then collected by runners in tophats, as John shouted out statistics and names from the platform by the chalkboard in an effort to egg people into increasing their bets. Trixie loathed to give Tommy credit, but his plan had been a good one. They were going to be rich by the time this horse lost.

Finn skidded to a stop by her table, holding a tophat out. Taking a moment to catch her breath, Trixie smiled at him as she pushed the money into it. "How are you, Finn?"

"Tired," he said. "And _hungry_."

"Aw," Trixie said. She reached into her purse and pulled out a few coins. "Here. We've got 15 minutes until the betting window closes, why don't you go to the market and get something to eat then, yeah?"

Beaming, Finn accepted the coins, pocketing them and casting a nervous look out for his siblings. "Thank you, Trixie."

"Anytime, kid." She put her purse away, reaching out for the next stack of notes. "You'll be good, yeah?"

He nodded vigorously, and with that, he was off, disappearing back into the crowd to finish up his work for the day. Trixie wished that her shift ended the same time as his—between the recurring nightmare, increase in business, and now the block of time she needed to devote each morning to listening to James' unbearable stories of Cambridge and his many childhood nannies. How could a man who had achieved so little at the end of it all possibly have this much to say about himself? Trixie couldn't seem to figure it out. But they were running at a deficit, and they'd need to keep counting until all the money had been tracked in the books—by the looks of it, a few hours into the evening.

She wasn't even technically supposed to be working; her surveillance had meant a weeklong vacation, but the shop had gotten so busy and James had gotten so intolerable that she'd made up some event she needed to gather information on for Inspector Campbell. They'd reluctantly allowed her to return, but only on the condition that James lurk across the street in the Garrison for the entirety of the day.

The front door opened and Trixie looked up. Tommy. Though he spent some time greeting the men by the door, his eyes locked in on her almost instantly, and he was soon pushing past them and making a beeline in her direction. "We need to talk," he announced.

"I'm working," she answered.

Tommy didn't move, so Trixie blew out a breath and pushed her chair away from the table to stand up. Once she was on her feet, Tommy slung an arm around her back and guided her towards a back corner of the shop. "You need to point Campbell in the direction of the Lees," he mumbled.

"Who are the Lees?" Trixie asked.

"Rroma family," he replied simply.

Trixie raised an eyebrow, unsure how that explained using them as a scapegoat. "Are these the people you've started a war with?"

With a reluctant shrug, he admitted, "As a matter of fact, they are. I need to send Campbell down the wrong track until I come up with a better plan."

The admission of weakness struck an out-of-tune chord in Trixie's chest. When she envisioned the inside of Tommy's brain, it didn't so much as _think_. It just knew. He never did anything without considering exactly what the consequences were, exactly how many people would be involved, exactly how to twist it in his favor. The rash _until I come up with a better plan_ was so human it nearly made her forget that she hated him.

"Alright," Trixie said simply. "Blame the Lees for the guns. What evidence would you like me to bring up?"

"Tell him they have a history of thievery," Tommy instructed. "Tell him they've got an alliance with the IRA."

"Do they?" Trixie asked.

"Does it matter?" Tommy countered.

She supposed not—if the Peaky Blinders were truly in a war with the Lees, she didn't care much about how this particular plan affected their lives. Two birds with one stone. "This whole plan is fucking ridiculous, if I'm being honest. There's no way he'll believe I was hanging out in a _betting shop_ all day just to snoop and nobody got suspicious."

"The plan'll work," Tommy assured her.

"Not the parts of it I know about."

"Well, you don't know the whole thing."

Trixie rolled her eyes. "I hate that. I hate not knowing what I'm being a part of."

"It's for your own good."

"Somehow, I don't believe that."

The rare smile that graced his lips was more than a surprise. For once, it wasn't hollow and cold as ice; he actually seemed amused by her. As he turned away, gazing out at the chaos of the shop, he asked, "Do you like the races, Beatrice?"

"I'm ambivalent," she replied, shrugging. " _...Why?_ "

"I'm wondering if you'd like to accompany me to the tracks next weekend," Tommy said, without turning his head to look at her.

Trixie glanced at him sideways in disbelief. When she deduced that he was not, in fact, joking, she scoffed and answered plainly, "No."

"It's for business, not pleasure," he clarified. "I need someone to help me motivate Kimber into making a deal with me."

She blinked at him. "Are you _serious?_ I don't know how to say this so you'll comprehend it, but I'm not a whore. I'm not your sacrificial lamb."

"And I'm not asking you to be," Tommy insisted. "I need you there as my accountant."

"I don't trust you."

His smirk faltered the slightest bit; Trixie drew it up to her imagination. Tommy cleared his throat. "How's your bodyguard? You're not supposed to be working."

"I told him I needed to snoop," Trixie said. "Allegedly, I'm trying to find another pressure point for the Inspector to bargain with." After a moment, she added, "Also, he's fine. Handsome and rich, but rather annoying when it comes down to it."

"Handsome, eh?" Tommy asked. "Never thought of you as the type to fall for a copper."

"Never thought of myself as the type of person to falsify an engagement to you, either," Trixie retorted. "And anyway, not that it's your business, but I don't fancy him. He's poorly read and feels the need to share his opinions nonetheless."

"Not my business?" said Tommy dubiously. He didn't comment on the rest of the information she'd relayed.

Trixie rolled her eyes. "You know we're not actually engaged, right?" she deadpanned.

"I'm aware."

"So act like it."

He sighed, as if bored with the conversation, and Trixie scoffed. "Alright, Thomas, I'm going back to work now. I'll let the coppers know to chase the Lees during my break."

"Take a late lunch," he instructed.

She scowled. " _Why?"_

He shrugged. "Wives don't take lunch breaks with the rest of the staff."

Trixie opened her mouth, but no reply fell out, just a shortened sound of disbelief that snapped off the end of itself as Tommy turned and strode off towards the office. _Unbelievable!_ The nerve he had to talk to her like that and then walk away without giving her the chance to respond.

Pursing her lips, Trixie huffed and returned to her chair, where the money was again piling up. Of all weeks for Tommy to try and keep her out of the parlor.

Unless—unless this was _why_ he'd chosen this week for her to stay away. Was he trying to go back on their deal? A man in Birmingham was only as good as his word, but Tommy had always been exceptional. Why _should_ the rules apply to a man who thought himself God? Trixie gritted her teeth as she slapped the counted notes down on the table. Tommy Shelby might have loved to play God, but he would never be hers.

* * *

Trixie's late lunch rolled around at 4 o'clock, after Scudboat had returned from his trip to the Garrison half-drunk and half-sober, but still entirely dull. Rather than traveling to the nearby cafe, or the Garrison, or even home for food, she found herself skittering down the street to Church, knowing that James wouldn't be far behind her.

As she bowed her head in reverence at the crucifix hanging on the front wall, Trixie dipped her ring finger into the bowl of holy water by the door and did the sign of the cross. She ducked into one of the confessionals sliding the shuttered door closed after her.

After a moment, the door for the priest's corridor opened and shut. Trixie could make out James' figure through the darkened screen as he stretched his hands out and then rested them on his thighs. "Are you alright, Miss Price?" he mumbled.

Trixie rolled her eyes, grateful at least for the privacy the confessional offered. "I think I may have something useful for the Inspector," she explained, lifting her voice an octave and pretending to sound distressed. _Bloody damsel._ "I was hoping you'd be able to relay it to him."

"Well, alright," James said. "But I'll have to leave you alone at the Shelby House for a few hours while I visit him."

"I'll be alright," she murmured. "The women—they're there, they'll help me. They care about me, even only as Tommy's fiance."

James sighed. "Well, alright then. I supposed I could stop by and see him tonight. What would you like me to share?"

She took a slow, deep breath. "I've overheard conversations that seem to indicate that the Lees were involved in a major robbery recently. They're a Rroma family, mostly based in the countryside, but they do have some presence in town. And, well—from what I've gathered, they've an allegiance with the IRA. And recent news seems to indicate that the IRA are in line with the Communists, who are hoping for an uprising."

James was quiet for a moment. "You think the IRA coordinated with a Rroma clan to steal a case of machine guns to aid Communists?"

Trixie squinted. Put like that, the case was rather flimsy. But it didn't need to be foolproof—it didn't need to be much of a case at all, just enough for Campbell to go barking up the wrong tree before he realized who had actually been responsible. And he already thought she was dumb—she could make up whatever rubbish she wanted to support her case, and if she was wrong, he'd sum it up to her womanhood. "The Lees have a history of thievery," she explained. "I heard Thomas and his brothers discussing them." That didn't exactly clarify what she was arguing for, so she went on to say, "The IRA and the Communists are always looking for more allies. Their movements hinge on solidarity. And Rroma people have never been received well by the Crown. Would it not make sense for them to find friendship in each other?"

"Maybe we'll leave the Detective work to the Inspector," said James.

Trixie rolled her eyes, but said, "Of course. This is only what I understand so far."

"Is this what you've been gathering information on?" James asked.

"Yes," said Trixie. "Yes. I'm trying to pay better attention to my husband's work so that I can understand what—what he's doing." She pulled at the thread again. "I can do more, but it may require you to stay at the apartment. He'll notice a new face if he sees it enough times. A handsome one, especially." _Men and their egos._

James cleared his throat nervously on the other side of the confessional. For a man with that much professional training, he seemed awfully vulnerable. "How am I to protect you when I won't be near you?"

"Business is improving, Tommy says," Beatrice assured him. "I can tell he's being honest—he's happier now. He's not so angry. If he gets worse, though, we can adjust. I just—I think for now, it'll compromise the investigation if I have you following me everywhere I go."

"It's not protocol to let a protected informant roam around wherever they please," said James.

"I won't be much of a useful informant if I'm exiled from the company," Trixie countered. "I think it would be alright for you to back off a bit, just until I know more."

With a sigh, he agreed, "Well, alright, then. Should I still pick you up from work today?"

Trixie considered. There would be plenty of work to do tonight—if she'd measured things correctly, Tommy's horse was bound to lose today's race. While the hours were exhausting and being at home usually gave her time to rest, James as her neighbor was making that rather difficult, and she grew so lonely when she was away from Polly and the others for too long. Besides—if Tommy really was trying to force her out of the business, it would be in her best interests to hold on as tight as she could to her job. In this case, by working late. Which would mean needing an escort home.

"Yes," she said cautiously, trying to choose her words with precision. "Polly and I usually have drinks together on Thursdays."

"A woman like you has no business drinking with a woman like her," James reprimanded.

Trixie resisted the urge to punch down the screen dividing them and attack him. She gave fuck-all that he and Grace and Campbell were willing to cheapen Tommy's name, God knew he deserved it, but Polly had never been anything but good-hearted. Cunning, and forceful, yes, but good-hearted through it all. What was Trixie without her? What would have become of her?

"Well, it would be rather odd for me not to show up," she managed, pulling at a loose thread on her gloves. "I ought to go, but I'd likely be done working by eleven."

"Quite late," James remarked.

"Does eleven work or not?" Trixie asked, not wanting to allow him any further opportunity to weigh in on her private business. If she found Tommy's commentary irritating, James was vying for his crown and defeating him by a landslide.

"Eleven works," James said, though his voice was strained by reluctance. "I'll see you then, Missus Shelby."

"Miss Price," she corrected, but her words were lost in his clamoring out of the confessional, and the swing of the shutting door behind him.

* * *

The late night she'd predicted had come to fruition after all. Well past ten, and all the other occupants of the betting shop had either retired for the day, gone to the Garrison to celebrate, or been at the races to watch Monaghan Boy lose. Now, the only people left in the parlor were Tommy and Trixie, the former of whom seemed awfully glum for a man who could actually be rolling in cash.

"Something wrong?" she called across the room at him, against her better judgment. Part of her just wanted to kill the time until 11 rolled around with conversation, but another part of her wanted to scope out how much danger her job might be in.

Tommy looked up, tossing a bundle of cash down onto the table and shooting her an irritated glare. "I assume you knew."

Trixie blinked. "You'll have to be more specific, I'm afraid."

"About Ada," he muttered, avoiding her eyes in favor of the coins on the table. So Polly had told him? Evidently, he had not taken it well.

"Aren't babies delights?" she taunted, her voice flat and hollow. "I'm sure you're thrilled to be an uncle."

"Ecstatic," he drawled.

"I can tell," she retorted. "You've made us rich. You've made yourself richer. Why do you look like you're about to light the winnings on fire?"

At that, he looked up, but this time, he wasn't angry or annoyed or smirking. He just looked exhausted, the purple rings under his eyes growing darker with the sky. Something in him was pleading for her to be gentle with him. It startled her.

"Freddie Thorne," he said. "Freddie _fucking_ Thorne."

"Big fan of that word, huh?" Trixie said. "It's always Freddie _fucking_ Thorne, and the Peaky _fucking_ Blinders." Tommy didn't entertain her attempt at humor, so she huffed and leaned back in her chair, dropping her arms to the side and abandoning the coins and bills she'd gotten halfway through sorting. "What's wrong with Mr. fucking Thorne?"

"He's a fucking communist."

"And you're a fucking gangster. Let those in glass houses not cast stones, Mr. Shelby."

After a long moment of quiet had stretched out between them, Tommy said, "He didn't marry her."

Trixie fell silent. "And what if he did?"

Tommy shrugged. "Why bother asking? He's left town. Left her with the baby."

"I'm sure if you put your mind to it, you'd be able to find him," Trixie said. The Peaky Blinders were able to track down men hundreds of miles away who owed them debts, and rule an entire city. Surely Tommy Shelby could locate one communist—his childhood best mate, at that—and return him to Birmingham for the sake of his younger sister.

In lieu of an answer, Tommy stood up from his desk and stalked over to Arthur's office. For a moment, Trixie expected him to just lock the door behind him in a blunt but nonetheless forceful way of ending the conversation, but he returned a moment later with a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. This was an act of kindness, Trixie realized, but she had no idea what to do with it.

The silence was tense, and she waited for him to pour whiskey into both glasses and gesture at one of them before standing and crossing the parlor to sit across from him at the table. "Tell me about the handsome copper," he said.

"Um, Cambridge educated. Served in the military. He studied botany, and he thinks _The Scarlet Letter_ was the peak of modern literature. He's also desperately egotistical. Not nearly as bad as the Inspector, though, who noted me down in his journal as _a bit dumb._ "

At that, Tommy snorted, and then threw down a gulp of his drink. Trixie took a reluctant sip. "A bit dumb?"

Trixie narrowed her eyes. "The issue there better be with _dumb_ and not _a bit."_

He set his glass down gently. "If you were dumb, you wouldn't be working for me."

"I don't work for you. I work for Polly."

"And who's the one you made a deal with, then?" he asked, raising an eyebrow as if they didn't both know the answer to his question.

"Why did you pick this week to keep me out of work?" Trixie asked. "You knew Monaghan Boy would be losing. You knew we'd be having all this money to count and order and record."

"Exactly," said Tommy. "I knew we'd be busy, and I couldn't have the Lees killing my accountant during the busiest week of the season so far."

She eyed him critically. Tommy Shelby was spectacularly difficult to read, with his blank eyes and a visage that always seemed to be either neutral or displeased, but neither seemed to be the case right now. If he'd actually wanted her protected, then why not one of the Peaky Blinders? Why not one of the men she knew? Why a cop, who would keep her out of the office for so long when she was needed most?

"Are you a man of your word?" she asked him.

"What else do I have?" he returned.

Trixie set her own glass down, less than graceful. She gestured at the heaps of money, stacks high enough that if she slumped in her chair it would be difficult to see him. "You have all this. You have a kingdom, you have knights willing to fight your battles for you. And I assume you didn't achieve it all through honesty and good intentions."

"What would I gain from betraying you?" he asked.

"You've never liked me," she pointed out.

Ignoring that, he continued, "You're not powerful enough for me to consider a real opponent."

Trixie narrowed her eyes. She didn't know whether to be relieved or offended by that—most likely, a combination of both. "You—I—ugh!" she stammered in disbelief. "You have to twist everything in your favor."

The door to the shop swung open, and both paused their sparring session to inspect who it was—Polly, in a beautiful blue peacoat. Trixie would have to ask her where she'd gotten it next time they snagged a moment alone. She was humming. Trixie had never heard her hum, but something about it felt threatening.

As Polly set a hat and her purse down at the corner of the table, she eyed the piles of money. "So Monaghan Boy finally lost," she remarked.

Tommy nodded, his eyes sliding from Trixie to his aunt. "Third time unlucky." Then, looking down at his winnings, he said, "We took money from all over the city."

"Yeah, but you'll pay it back to the people around here?" Polly asked. "Buy your popularity back?"

Tommy sat back in his chair, stretching his arms out proudly. "Already done."

Polly smiled, dragging a chair over next to Trixie and sitting down in it. The scraping of the legs against the hardwood reminded Trixie that she still needed to replace the nails she'd pulled out for the raid. Tommy hadn't said anything about it, yet, but it was only a matter of time. "Oh, you two," Polly sighed. "I thought you both so well."

Being grouped with Tommy brought out a feeling of loathing in Trixie's stomach, but mostly, confusion. Why was Polly reflecting on the two of them? Why was she smiling so much?

While Trixie wrestled with these questions, Tommy picked up his drink to take a sip. "And you fixed this race without the permission of Billy Kimber?" Polly asked, nonchalant. Trixie froze. Billy Kimber? She knew that name from somewhere—she'd seen it on documents before, but she had never been privy to the networking details of Tommy's plots, only the finances. In one swift motion, Polly yanked the whiskey glass from Tommy's hand and hurled it across the room. "Clearly didn't teach _you_ well enough, Thomas. Rule one. You don't punch above your weight."

Trixie suddenly wished she'd gone home early with the rest of the men. This didn't feel like a conversation she needed to be part of or witness to. It was family business, and she was only a Shelby according to the elaborate lie she'd told the coppers. Besides, the clock was getting closer to eleven. James would be here soon for her, and he wouldn't expect to collide with Shelby family infighting—it would be bad for everyone involved if both events converged.

"Billy Kimber is there for the taking," Tommy assured her

"Says who?" Polly demanded. "Says Tommy and his parliament of two?"

"I didn't know who Billy Kimber was until today," Trixie insisted. She felt like a snitch, but it was true—she hadn't signed off on this decision because she hadn't known it was being made.

"Parliament of one then?" Polly cried, slamming her hand down on the edge of Tommy's desk. "I ran this business for _five years."_

"Yeah, while I was away fighting, remember?" Tommy returned. "Where I _learned_ some things, such as you strike when your enemy is weak."

If Billy Kimber was classified as a Peaky Blinders enemy, then why the fuck had Trixie never heard of him? She glanced back and forth between the two Shelbys, trying to discern what she could from their expressions, but it wasn't much help.

Standing up abruptly, Tommy turned, revealing the red satin of his vest. Like all his clothes, this suit was impeccably fitted, even with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and exposing the muscles of his forearms. "I thought you came here to talk _family business_ ," he sneered.

Polly scoffed. "I'll deal with it." She moved to collect her things, slinging her purse over her shoulder and pointing angrily at the money. "You're too busy taking over the world." Only when she'd begun fitting her hat over her head did Tommy speak up.

"Polly…" he said, an apology without apologizing. There was a rare bit of shame in his voice that almost made Trixie laugh. He looked like a scolded boy, leaning against the bureau and folding his arms across his chest, his eyes glued to his feet. Then, as if his own words made him miserable, he said, "If it's about Ada, I need to know."

Trixie looked up at Polly at the mention of Ada. Had something gone wrong? "Is she alright?" she asked.

"She's fine," Polly assured her. "Other than the scare Tommy gave her at the movies, earlier, she's fine." Throwing her had down on the table, she took one shaky breath, pulling an envelope out from the innermost compartment of her purse. When she spoke, she sounded calm, as if the fight with Tommy had never happened at all. "She wants you to give Freddie this letter, Tommy," Polly said, crossing the desk. Tommy didn't offer a hand to receive it, so Polly placed it delicately next to him. "She wants Freddie to know she's having his baby. He deserves an opportunity to do the right thing."

Tommy stared daggers at the letter, before shoving his hands into his pockets.

"I say we give them a chance," Polly said.

He leaned forward, picking the envelope up and inspecting it with a sigh. "For a woman who's had a hard life with men, you're still fond of romance, eh?" Tommy said.

Polly flinched, but made quick work to cover it.

"What do you think Freddie sees in our Ada?" he asked.

"That's Freddie's business," Polly returned.

"No," Tommy disagreed, waving the letter at the two of them. Now, Trixie _really_ felt like she shouldn't be here. The clock on the wall read 10:55. If she kept James waiting, what would he do about it? "No, I'll tell you what he sees. He sees machine guns, and rifles, and ammunition, and some— _glorious revolution."_

"What is it you really don't like about Freddie?" Polly demanded.

Tommy shook his head. "She'll have no life with a man on the run. If you can't see that, you can't see much." Without hesitating, he tossed the letter into the fire. Trixie watched the edges brown and burn, whatever words Ada had dedicated to her beloved eviscerated with the paper. Before she could process it, Polly was reaching for the fire iron and hoisting it above her head as though she planned on beating Tommy senseless. The world seemed to still, then, Tommy staring challengingly at his aunt, Polly holding the iron above her head, shaking from anger, and Trixie nothing but an observer, seemingly invisible to them in the face of all their rage. Instead of hitting him, though, Polly threw the iron at the fire, and it clanged as it fell to the floor. Trixie did her best not to move.

"Damn them for what they did to you in France!" she shouted.

Tommy dragged his eyes away from Polly, once again staring intently at the floor. As Polly stormed out of the parlor, he avoided looking at her, heavy-lidded and in some sort of agony. "Tell Ada Freddie went to America," he said, after Polly had slammed the door behind her.

Trixie craned her neck behind her. There was nobody else for him to be talking to. "Me?"

Tommy nodded.

"Absolutely not," she refused. "Ada's my friend."

"We made a deal."

"That I would say what you wanted to the _Inspector._ We had no deal about me lying to your sister."

"It's for Ada's own good. Nobody wants to be trapped with a communist for the rest of their lives."

"Then it's a good thing you're not the one who'll be marrying him," Trixie said. "Because Ada's twenty-four, Jesus Christ, Tommy. She can make her own choices."

"She doesn't know what she's doing," he argued.

Trixie scoffed, throwing her hands up. "You think you know everything, but the rest of the world is not as transactional as you think it is. Some things aren't bargaining chips. Your sister being one of them."

"What, are you walking away, too?" he demanded.

She was already halfway out of her chair, and with two minutes to go on the clock it wasn't like she'd be getting much done with the rest of the money. So Trixie kept going, shoving the cash into the nearest empty lockbox and yanking her coat off the back of her chair. "I'm walking away, yeah," she called back. "You don't deserve my time right now, and if you want to hear from me again, maybe you should consider letting Ada make her own _fucking_ decisions."

Throwing the box down on the table, Trixie grabbed her purse and strode out the hallway, not bothering to look back at Tommy as she went. Not a moment after she had stepped outside did she collide with James Bradley, dressed in a blue suit, looking just as neat as he had earlier despite the late hour. He put his hands out to steady her, and she forced a grateful smile.

The interaction was all false pleasantries and tense words, but as Tommy watched the two through the window of the betting shop, he found that his blood had begun boiling.

The copper had been his idea, yeah, but it had become very, _very_ clear that Tommy needed to get rid of him.

Now.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oops tommy is jealous...would sure hate if all this led to a confrontation with james next chapter...haha jk...unless?
> 
> Tommy's absurdity aside, thank you so much for reading! I hope you're all doing well and staying safe and if the weather outside is anything like it is near me (On Fire) I hope you're all able to stay inside. We've got two more chapters to go after this until we wrap up episode 2, the next one featuring jealous Tommy and some strictly enemies/coworkers behavior from Trixie and Tommy. After that, we have some Grace and Trixie to help make things more difficult. Thank you to everyone who reviewed last chapter, also! I'm glad you all enjoy the Trixie/Ada/Polly scenes because I'm a big fan of /female friendship/ and it's fun for me to write a slightly happier Trix.
> 
> If you feel so inclined, I would love to hear what you all thing of this chapter as well! I'll see you all soon, hopefully Wednesday, with chapter 10.
> 
>  **Chapter 10** / _No Rest for the Wicked_
> 
> James retracted his hand, putting it back into his pocket. "Have a good night, Miss Price."
> 
> "Mrs. Shelby," Tommy said, addressing James now. "She's to be _my_ wife."
> 
> James blinked, his smile faltering. "Mrs. Shelby, excuse me."


	11. No Rest for the Wicked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listen to this chapter’s soundtrack [here.](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/23cW4f72uLcyYyeY0LHe3z?si=RzqmWHcXSYK8Fv9rrF1sKg)

__ _ “All have sinned and fall short of the glory of God.”  _ —Romans 3:23

James Bradley was many things—a Cambridge alumnus, an officer, a veteran, and a botanist—but evidently, he was not a quitter. Trixie had been lost in this conversation for god-knew-how-long, listening to him challenge her every opinion without ever giving her the opportunity to finish a sentence, and while there was no clock in sight from the balcony outside of their respective apartments, she would feel safe betting the entirety of her last paycheck that it was well past eleven. 

“Have you read Dickens?” he asked, leaning casually against the railing despite how cold the metal undoubtedly was. “I found him to be a delight. It’s not often you see such interesting portrayals of poverty. What a wonderful world to explore, even only in literature.” 

Trixie made a face, casting a tentative look to the street below, where two men were shouting and drinking. “Wonderful world?” she asked. 

“Yes!” he insisted. “It’s so interesting to see how people can be so happy with so little.” 

“Very interesting,” Trixie said, blinking at him. He couldn’t possibly be serious, could he? 

“Well, do you have a favorite author?” he asked. 

Trixie debated sharing with him that her favorite author was Shakespeare, but she dreaded what he could possibly say about him and she had no interest in James Bradley ruining her opinion of the man when he most certainly had never read his plays in any serious manner. “I like a number of authors,” she said instead. “I enjoy the gothic stories.  _ Frankenstein  _ and such.” 

“Do you really?” James chirped. “I find them tacky.” 

Of course he did. 

At this point, she was considering praying.  _ Dear Lord, I know I have sinned and am not worthy of your grace, but if you are merciful you will send me an angel to get me out of this conversation.  _

Not ten seconds later, the stairs up to her apartment began rattling with footsteps. Had that actually worked? Trixie turned over her shoulder, expecting some haloed Messiah to come beckon her away for more divine tasks, but instead, she found Tommy Shelby, looking like hell. So it hadn’t been the will of God—just an unfortunate coincidence. 

Then, Trixie remembered that Tommy and James were not supposed to be in the same room together. 

“Dearest!” she hurried to exclaim. “What are you doing here?” she asked through gritted teeth, masking her panic with a sugary-sweet pitch. 

“S’raining,” he replied, pointing over the railing as if that explained a damn thing. It  _ was  _ raining—Trixie could feel the fat droplets splashing against the metal bar and ricocheting onto her hands—but that didn’t exactly draw a correlatory path that led to him being outside her apartment, in the middle of the night, in the homestretch of the week they were supposed to spend apart. 

Trixie turned back to James. “This is my fiance, Thomas,” she introduced. 

James beamed kindly, offering his hand for Tommy to shake. The Peaky Blinder ignored the gesture, instead putting his arm around Trixie’s waist and pulling her close to his side. His body was cold as a corpse, and she nearly shrieked at the feeling of his hand on her. 

From Tommy’s side, she half-smiled at James. “This is my neighbor, James Bradley,” she continued. 

“Wonderful to meet you,” said James. “We were just talking about literature. Do you read much?” 

“Darling, I need to talk to you in private,” Tommy said, ignoring James altogether. Trixie felt her body begin to tremble from his weight, frigid and leaning against her, but also from the peels of laughter she was holding back. Being on the receiving end of Tommy’s rudeness was a nightmare, and one she had simply learned to endure. It was infinitely more amusing, though, when it was being directed towards a deserving target. “Goodbye, John,” he said, fixing James with a pointed glare. Trixie bit her lip to keep from smiling. 

Though James’ grin didn’t dull, he seemed to catch on to whatever supposed scenario Tommy was concocting. “Oh, right. Alright. I’m going to finish up that book I mentioned,” he told Trixie. She had no idea which one he was talking about, but she smiled at him anyway. “Have a good night, Miss Price.” 

“Mrs. Shelby,” Tommy said, addressing James now. “She’s to be  _ my  _ wife.” 

James blinked, his smile faltering. “Mrs. Shelby, excuse me,” he corrected, nodding at her stiffly before he turned and headed to the nearest staircase, up a few levels towards his own apartment. 

It took most of her strength not to push Tommy off of her right then, but James could’ve easily turned around on his way home. Instead, she dug into her pocket for a key and unlocked the door to her own place, stepping in first and then allowing Tommy to follow. It was mostly dark, save for the dim glow of the street lights outside, and the apartment, like always, was bathed in blue. She found her matchbox and lit some of the usual candles, until the apartment was cast in warm, flicking light. 

“Alright,” she said, straightening from the lantern on her table and putting a hand on her hip. “Give it up. What the hell are you doing here?” 

“A man can’t come see his fiance?” Tommy replied nonchalantly, shrugging off his jacket and resting it on the back of Luca’s chair. 

“I’m still annoyed at you for what you’ve done to Freddie and Ada,” she reminded him. “And  _ again.  _ We’re not actually engaged.” To that he said nothing, so Trixie decided to address the obvious. “You look awful.” 

“Thanks,” he said wryly. “Can I have a drink?” 

Trixie sighed, turning to the cabinet and pulling out the only bottle of liquor in the house—gin she’d bought after her father’s death, a bottle she’d never gotten around to finishing. Drinking at the Garrison was alright, and drinking with Polly and Ada even better, but drinking alone in her blue apartment and staring at the empty chair that had once belonged to her dead lover felt pathetic. She could never bring herself to do it. Now, though, Tommy was company—unwelcome, surely, but company nonetheless. She set the bottle down next to two glasses and pushed it across the table. He could pour it himself. 

“What do you smoke?” she asked him. 

“Opium,” he replied easily. 

“Why?” she asked. 

He shrugged. “Helps me sleep.” 

Trixie glanced at the clock on the wall, ticking gently in the otherwise still apartment. She’d guessed eleven, but it was closed to 1 now. “Should you not be asleep by now?” 

Tommy took a large gulp of the gun, and cringed. “Had some work to do.” 

Standing, she rolled her eyes. “Alright, well, this has been a fun chat, but I’ve got better things to do than sit at  _ my own table  _ and listen to your non-answers, so, excuse me.” She headed towards the closet and dug out her pajamas. After swiping them off the rack, she disappeared behind her bathroom curtain to change. 

“I’ve spoken with Campbell,” Tommy announced, as Trixie fiddled with the button on the nightshirt. 

“I thought we were still on the backfoot,” she called back, yanking the curtain back open and flinching at the  _ ring!  _ the motion sent through the room. She deposited her clothes into the hamper and then grabbed her book off her nightstand—she was halfway through a battered-up edition of Rousseau’s  _ The Social Contract _ , on sale at the bookshop she passed on the way to work if she took the long way through the city. 

Rejoining Tommy at the table, she noted his raised eyebrow at her book. “Not anymore,” he said, as she skimmed through the pages to find where she’d left off. “I’ve made him a deal.” 

“Mm, is that right?” Trixie asked, finally locating her page and smoothing out the spine so that the book would lay flat. She looked up at Tommy. “What’s the deal?” 

“I’m going to give him the guns,” Tommy said. “After we expand to take over Kimber’s tracks.” 

Trixie nodded, narrowing her eyes. “Right. Is that not what Polly nearly smacked you upside the head for, though? Is that not what she warned you against?” 

“Polly’s not in charge anymore,” Tommy reminded her. 

“Agree to disagree,” Trixie quipped. 

“Should I remind you of _ our _ deal?” Tommy asked. 

Trixie dogeared her page and slammed the book shut. “I’m aware. Tell me more about Campbell.” 

“He knows that if I get taken into custody, those guns get sent off to the IRA in Belfast. Churchill finds out, his career is over. IRA ever get a good shot at him, his life’s over too.” 

“So you’ve tied his fate to yours?” 

Tommy shrugged. “Oldest trick in the book.” 

“Right.” She pushed the book—the literal one—aside. As much as she would have liked to ignore Tommy entirely, if only for the power-trip, she knew better than to treat work details flippantly. In place of the book, she poured the other glass half-full and took a reluctant sip. “Why’d you come here if it was raining, Tommy? Why not go home?” 

He stared at her curiously, and then reached forward to pour himself more of the gin. “I wanted company.” 

Trixie snorted. “ _ My  _ company? You don’t like me.” 

“I don’t trust you,” Tommy corrected. 

“Oh, like that’s better,” she huffed, taking a larger swig. “Why’d you talk to James like that?” 

“Like what?” Tommy asked. 

“Like...why were you a  _ prick  _ to him,” Trixie clarified, though she felt like that should’ve been obvious. 

“You’re  _ my  _ fiance. In his eyes, you’re mine.” 

She rolled her eyes. “I’m my own, thank you very much.” 

Tommy kicked his chair back, the legs scraping against the floor terribly, and stood up. He wandered back over to the sparsely decorated wall above her bookshelf, where Luca’s sketches hung over the box of his things—the notice she’d received announcing his death, the wedding ring—the  _ real  _ wedding ring. 

“You know, if you keep this up, you’re going to scare every man in Birmingham away from me except for you. I’ll have no prospects.” 

“Except for me,” Tommy remarked, and Trixie snorted before she could help herself. When had he decided to become comical? 

“Like you’d ever marry me.” She laughed. “Like I’d ever marry  _ you _ .” 

Tommy turned back to the wall. “You wouldn’t marry me, but you’d marry him?” He pointed to the self-portrait Luca had done once. He’d given it to Trixie before he left for the war.  _ It’s so you won’t forget what I look like.  _ She’d laughed it off at the time. How could she forget? Now, she was grateful. Nothing would ever be able to take away her memories of Luca, but it was nice to have something more tangible to go with them. 

“I  _ would _ marry him,” said Trixie, “but he died in the war.” 

“Thousands of men died in the war,” Tommy dismissed. 

“I didn’t love a thousand men,” Trixie returned. “Will you please not touch that?” 

Tommy looked over at her, as if to gauge how serious she was being, but to her surprise, he lowered his hand from the drawing and shoved it into his pocket. 

“Where’s your hat?” she asked him. “You look odd without it.” 

“Left it at home.” 

“In your hurry to come here?” 

“ _ No.  _ In my hurry to get to the stables.” He paused, sitting back down opposite her and tracing the rim of the glass with the calloused pad of his thumb. The stables explained some of it—they were closer to Trixie’s apartment than to his own house, and if he wanted to get out of the rain, then this would be the nearest safe place to do so. “One of the horses got sick.” 

“Is it alright?” Trixie asked awkwardly. Tommy’s presence, usually, was still. If everything was made of atoms that moved, Tommy’s were quiet and waiting, dulled by whatever opium and alcohol and bitterness he carried with him. Now, though, he seemed almost frantic, as if the tightly wound knot that kept him together was beginning to come unspooled. It scared her. It excited her. She was torn between wanting to flee and duck for cover, and wanting to let whatever he was holding back wash over her, no matter the burn. 

“No,” said Tommy. “I had to put a bullet in her head.” 

“Oh, Jesus,” said Trixie. She had never met a horse she cared about, because she had no money to  _ buy  _ a horse and her work involved very little contact with the actual horses, but she still felt the grief that came with death. The apartment was saturated in it already—what was a little more? “I’m—I’m sorry, Tommy.” 

“Sometimes death is a kindness,” he said. 

Trixie nodded. “Yeah.” This time, she wasn’t lying. “You look cold.” 

“Can barely feel it,” he mumbled. 

She didn’t have a fireplace to offer him; that probably would’ve been ideal, so instead she pushed the candle across the table in his direction for him to put his hands over. “Humor me,” she asked. “For once, just—pretend you like me enough to accept the offer.” 

Trixie knew she didn’t like him, but she also knew to treat anything grieving delicately, and the rawness of Tommy’s expression gave her hope at the chance of knowing him better; if not for curiosity, for strategy. Money and information were currency in Birmingham, and though she could never outdo him on the former, Trixie was confident enough in her abilities to challenge him on the latter. 

Leaning forward, the corner of his mouth turning up joylessly, Tommy hovered his hands over the candle. “I like you fine,” he admitted after a long moment. 

Trixie snorted. “You’re quite mean, for someone who  _ likes me fine.”  _

“The way I remember it, you’re always mean to me.” 

“You called me a whore when we met,” Trixie reminded him. “That was the  _ first thing  _ you said to me. And you tried to throw me into the canal. And you suspended me from work during the week where I would’ve earned the biggest commission of the year.” 

“You came back, though, didn’t you?” he asked her. 

“Against your orders,” she countered. “I know the game, Tommy. I know that if you start giving commands you don’t mean, you start losing control of the empire.” 

“You know that much, huh?” He looked up at her, suddenly cold again. “What else do you know?” 

Trixie blinked at him. What an invitation, what a double-edged sword. How was she supposed to respond to that? “You believe in mercy,” she said. It surprised even her. “Maybe not for men, but for animals. You fought, you won medals, you saved men’s lives.” She forced herself to meet his eyes. “Part of you died in the war. So you sliced it off like a limb and left it there to rot.” 

“I should’ve died in the war,” he muttered, pulling his hands back and digging around his pocket for a cigarette. He came up with one, but passed it to Trixie instead of taking it for himself. She lit the end in the candle’s flame and put it to her lips. 

Trixie didn’t know what to say to that piercingly vulnerable admission. How odd it was to be more guarded than him, for once—the man with the army. She didn’t know what to tell him, so she decided to do him a favor and even out the playing field. “You know, I almost became a nun,” she admitted. “I wanted to, before I met Luca. And maybe if he’d died before my father, and I had any connection to the clergy, I would’ve.” 

To her surprise, Tommy just laughed. “God help me if you had.” 

She raised an eyebrow, not sure what that was supposed to mean, so she latched onto the contradiction she was sure enough to stand on. “You don’t even believe in God.” It wasn’t a question, but she didn’t levy it quite like an accusation either. 

“No God worth anything makes a world like this,” he told her, gesturing around. “If God loved any of us, you’d have your house in the countryside, and I’d be dead.” 

Trixie blinked. “I really don’t think those are comparable,” she decided. 

“Tell me about Luca,” he said. “The man you  _ would  _ marry.” 

“You can come into my apartment and drink my gin,” said Trixie, “but you’re not privy to know about the people I love.” 

Tommy watched her for a moment, and then dipped his cigarette in the candle flame and brought it to his lips. “I’m not privy to the details of the people you love, and yet you know about the people I love.” 

“Because I love them too,” Trixie insisted. “It’s not the same. If you’d met Luca or my father while they were alive you would’ve spit on them. In Italian and a priest?” 

“You know, Beatrice, there are no innocents in Birmingham.” 

“Not anymore,” she clarified, and raised an eyebrow like she was daring him to correct her. “But there were.” Trixie didn’t know why she asked him now, when she’d been doing just fine keeping the question to herself for the last year; he was just so startlingly real all of a sudden, and she had been raised to see the God in other people, and his sudden humanity made it an unavoidable fact that even though he was more of a ghost than anything now, he had been someone once. “When did you become like this?” 

He exhaled smoke, looking like he ought to have felt properly offended by the question. “Like what?” he asked. Trixie supposed that the question was meant to scare her away, but it was the least odd part of her night so far. 

“Cold.” She glanced away, unable to hold his eyes for a reason she couldn’t quite name. “You weren’t born like this. Nobody’s born like this.” 

Tommy laughed bitterly, and took a drag from his cigarette. “Some things just run in the family.” 

“So then how do you explain Ada? Or Polly?” 

Now, he sighed. “When I was in the war,” he said, “I got used to seeing men die.” He shifted, avoiding her eyes. “You either get used to it to spare yourself from going mad while you’re there, or you let it destroy you and go mad in the middle of the fight.”

“You lose either way,” Trixie surmised. Tommy shrugged, but held out his hand as if giving her points for correctness. “You’re all numbing yourselves,” she remarked. “John and Arthur have whiskey, you’ve got opium.” 

“Now you’re getting it,” he said, in the same voice her teachers used when she finally grasped something they found obvious, and she found difficult. “I still need someone to accompany me to the races.” 

“Hm,” Trixie said. “I can ask around and see if anyone’s free.” 

He rolled his eyes. “Would it not look odd for a taken man to bring another woman to the races while his wife sits at home with her—” He jutted his thumb over his shoulder irritably. “— _ handsome  _ neighbor.” 

Trixie snorted. “You’ve  _ got  _ to let that go, Tommy. Ada was the one who pointed it out to me, anyway.” 

“How is Ada?” he asked. 

“Ask her yourself,” Trixie retorted. 

Sitting back in his chair, he rolled the cigarette back and forth between his index finger and his thumb, dulcet and restrained. “What do you make of this whole situation, beyond disagreeing with me about it?” 

She took some joy in the fact that he was asking her opinion, and then immediately wanted to kick herself for needing his validation at  _ all.  _ Still, she answered; Trixie wouldn’t pass up an opportunity to be heard. “I’ve known Ada for years, now, and I’ve grown quite attached to seeing her happy. I know you’re her brother, I know you’ve known her longer, but she’s my friend.” Trixie sighed. “I mean—after all the death the Shelbys have brought to Small Heath, what’s one life?” 

“Poetic,” he deadpanned. 

“You asked my opinion and I gave it.” 

He didn’t have a response to that, so Trixie pulled the book back over to the center of the table and flipped it back open. Obviously, she wasn’t going to get much reading done, but it was a way to busy her hands while he came up with some new elusive and vaguely ominous thing to say. Being alone with him in the quiet was alarming; Trixie was used to having some sort of distraction that kept herself from having to look at him head-on. Like the clouds and the smoke protected her eyes from the sun, the usual business shielded her from the sharp, aching beast of his presence. 

As she skimmed over the pages of the book, reading but not really, Trixie wondered where this night was supposed to be headed. How she could make him leave. After a moment, she found it worth considering whether or not she  _ wanted  _ him to leave—a thought too horrifying to reckon with, so she shoved it deep down inside herself with the hopes of never dealing with it ever again. She looked up and found him watching her. “What does it feel like to get high?” she asked, narrowing her eyes and speaking with a kind of delicateness that paralleled poking a dead animal with a stick. 

“Quiet,” said Tommy immediately. “It’s quiet.” He held out his cigarette and closed his left eye, like he was aiming a gun. “Everything blurs. Couldn’t hit a moving target if I tried.” 

Trixie wished she hadn’t asked. Because now that she knew he couldn’t fire a gun in this state, what the hell was she supposed to do with him? It wasn’t like he could make up for it in fighting; his hand was trembling from the weight of even his cigarette. “How long does it last?” she asked. 

Tommy shrugged. “Few more hours, probably. Why?” 

Rolling her eyes, she stood up from the table and grabbed both of their drinks, dumping them out in the sink.  _ What a waste of gin,  _ but then again, she would probably never get around to finishing it. “Sober up,” she demanded. “I can’t let you go out like this.” 

He smirked, leaning back and letting his eyes roll shut. “Careful, Beatrice. Or someone might think you care.” 

“Isn’t that the point?” she returned, leaning back against the counter. “Isn’t that the lie?” She rocked her head to the side and looked back at him. “Why’d you give me the ring, Tommy?” He was already out of it; it would be hard for him to lie to her now. And they were in her apartment—on  _ her  _ terms—he couldn’t avoid the question without leaving.  _ Oldest trick in the book _ , indeed. 

Tommy met her eyes, startled. “Polly put me up to it.” 

“No, she didn’t.” 

He sighed, recognizing that he’d been backed into a corner by her question. Rather accusatory, he waved his cigarette around in her direction. “You’re a fuckin’ hazard, you know that?” 

She blinked at him. “Pardon me?” 

He gritted his teeth, looking more like himself now than he had all evening. “The day I met you, what did you say to me?” 

Trixie tried to recall her own words. When she thought back to the day they’d met, she usually only remembered his rather curt greeting. “‘ _ I’m Beatrice Price, Mrs. Gray’s accountant’? _ ”

“And after that?” 

“I’m pretty sure there was no _after that_.” 

He shook his head, dropping the cigarette down to the table. She glared at him and he lifted the burning stub off her furniture. “I asked who you really were, and you told me again that you were Pol’s accountant.”

“Well it’s the truth, isn’t it?” Trixie asked. “Not sure how this relates to the wedding ring you gave me.”

“You didn’t pretend,” Tommy said simply. “Didn’t cower, didn’t act like you were afraid of me.” 

“You were being an ass,” she explained helpfully. “Didn’t want to give you the pleasure.” 

“You didn’t like me. You weren’t going to like Campbell, I assume. You have trouble lying. Needed to balance that out somehow.” 

“You don’t give me enough credit,” Trixie snapped. “It’s not the ring that’s been doing the work for Campbell, it’s  _ me.”  _ She pulled on the wedding band hurriedly, and took three long strides towards Tommy. After yanking the cigarette out of his hand and holding it between her own lips, she deposited the ring in his palm. He seized her hand with his own, forceful more in the suddenness of the action rather than his actual grip. Trixie froze. 

“You’re not afraid of me,” he said. 

In that exact moment, she did feel alarmed. Not by him, exactly, but by the way his eyes had darkened in a way she didn’t recognize. Tommy was hardly predictable, but Trixie knew his moods well enough. This was strange. This was new. “No,” she said anyway. “I’m not afraid of you.” 

He laughed, and Trixie realized that he was pulling her hand towards him so that he could slide the ring back up her finger. Her body felt feverish and tight, her hand suddenly on fire with a blaze that radiated straight to her core. “You’re the only person in this city who can say that, I think,” Tommy said. 

Trixie’s heart started kicking in her chest, her pulse chasing itself around her veins.  _ You’re the only person in this city who can say that.  _ No wonder he treated her like a traitor from the start. She was the last name on his list of conquests. “Should I be afraid, Mr. Shelby?” 

His fingers were now tracing the dips between her own. With the ring securely fastened, he had no reason to linger. And yet—he hadn’t moved. Their skin still pressed together in a way that made her feel raw. “I’d be afraid if I was you,” he admitted, his voice hoarse as it strained to carry itself above a whisper. 

There was no good reason for it, but Trixie almost wanted to smile. At how she’d managed to slight him, at the sudden power she felt, looking down on the King of Birmingham as he bestowed a ring on her finger. Fake, fake, fake; but only she knew that. It occurred to her that while all of Birmingham saw her as belonging to Tommy, now—now that she wore his ring—they also saw him as belonging to her. She had conquered the King. That was a heavy force, and it was hers. 

Trixie stretched out her other hand suddenly, smoothing out Tommy’s mussed hair. He leaned into her touch, inexplicably, and she laughed out a cloud of smoke. What were they doing? What was she becoming?

“I’ll go to the races with you,” she said finally, leaning away tentatively and offering him the cigarette she’d been holding between her lips. Her dark lipstick had left an imprint on the rim, but he accepted it anyway, inhaling from it without hesitating. “But I want something out of it,” she continued. 

“And what’s that,  _ darling? _ ” Tommy rasped. 

Trixie sat back down in her chair. So they were back to being combatants. “I want you to send a letter to Freddie letting him know about Ada. I want you to give him a chance.”

Tommy sighed. “Fine. Deal.” 

He stuck out his hand, and Trixie took it in her own to shake firmly. Any sort of gentleness they’d had for each other a moment ago had since evaporated, replaced by business formalities. “Stay until you’re sober,” she told Tommy. “I’m going to bed.” 

“Am I to sit at your kitchen table for the next few hours?” he asked. 

“Oh, I’m sorry—” Trixie apologized snidely. “Did you want to come to bed with me?” 

He shrugged, standing up. “Sounds better than the table.” 

She felt her jaw drop before she could help it. She hadn’t been serious—he  _ knew  _ she hadn’t been serious, and yet he’d accepted her offer anyway. Trixie could imagine the ridicule he would subject her to if she backed out now.  _ You’re afraid after all, are you, Beatrice?  _ His eyes were glowing with a challenge, and Trixie, stubborn to a fault, opted for the words that would surprise him more. “Wonderful, I’ll just wash my face and be ready, then.” 

“I’ll be waiting,” he said, a hollow smile gracing his lips. 

After throwing him a sneer, she disappeared back into the washroom, scrubbing at the eyeliner and lipstick she’d applied earlier that morning. Then, she stepped back into the bedroom, where Tommy was waiting. He yanked off his coat, resting it on the bureau, and pulled off his holster next. His gun landed heavily on the wardrobe, but he didn’t seem to mind, simply easing himself down and bending over to untie his boots. 

In the meanwhile, Trixie grabbed onto her corner of the sheets and slid into bed, lying on her back and watching Tommy nervously from her spot. This was, by far, the worst situation her pride had gotten her stuck in. But, rather literally, she’d already made her bed. Now she had to lie in it. 

With Tommy Shelby. 

He leaned back after kicking his boots off, joining her in the bed and steepling his hands under his head. The cigarette was gone, she didn’t know where he’d ashed it, but if the tenement went up in flames she’d know who to blame. 

“Your apartment’s a fucking shoebox,” he remarked. 

Because she was too tired to justify that with a remark, she elbowed him in the ribs. Then, she changed her mind about justifying it with a remark, and snapped, “ _ Fuck _ you.”

“Who’s mean now, eh?” he asked, letting his eyes slide shut and smiling nonetheless. He looked younger than she’d ever seen him. 

“Get the light,” she instructed, ignoring his comment. He sighed, but shuffled up and switched off the lamp next to the bed with a  _ click.  _ The blue of the room began to settle again. “Before the war, you were happy?” 

He shrugged, his silhouette stark despite the darkness. “Before the war, things were easy. Not so easy anymore.”

“What’s not easy?” 

“I was never falling asleep with other women under the pretense of a political engagement,” he rattled off. 

“Just other circumstances,” Trixie filled in, dry as the goddamn desert. With  _ Greta Jurossi,  _ God rest her soul _.  _

Tommy didn’t answer. She rolled her eyes and turned her head back up so she was facing the ceiling. Was it safe to sleep with her back to him? Probably not. But falling asleep facing each other was far too intimate for a pair of people who only tolerated each other for the purpose of staying alive. She flipped over to her left side, fixing her eyes on the wall.  _ Other circumstances.  _ Never before had she felt any shame about her inexperience—and if she  _ was  _ going to be embarrassed about it, why was she embarrassed because of Tommy? His opinion on the subject didn’t matter, since she knew with certainty that those two parts of her life would remain devoutly separate. This was the line that she was drawing in the sand. He could sleep in her bed, but they would never sleep together. 

“And you?” Tommy asked. Something about the way his voice crossed the bed told her that he was still on his back, facing the ceiling. 

“We’re not having this conversation,” Trixie dismissed easily, boring her eyes into the wall with such intensity that she considered the possibility of drilling a hole through it by the might of her gaze alone. Chatty Tommy, snarky Tommy,  _ high _ Tommy was proving to be significantly worse company than sober Tommy. Sober Tommy had nerve, but this version of him had the audacity to seem almost approachable, only reveal that he was just as much of a prick. The mattress dipped as he moved, sitting back up. “Are you actually planning on sleeping, or just lying next to me and watching  _ me  _ sleep?” 

“Can I smoke while I come up with an answer to that?” 

Trixie scowled. “Fine,” she said, rolling back over and shuffling up so she was sitting against the headboard. The flare of the striking match glowed orange, before he shook the flame away and started huffing away at the cigarette. Staying up and talking helped ease some of her nerves about sharing a bed with a man— _ this  _ man—and she wasn’t going to sleep well anyway. For no particular reason, maybe just to be mean, she said, “No wonder you always look so bloody exhausted.” 

“Do I really?” 

“Turn the light back on.” 

He obliged wordlessly, and she observed his face with a cautiousness usually reserved for expensive gowns and small animals. 

“Your eyes—you’ve got— _ bags  _ under them. Like you got punched.” 

“Maybe I did.” 

“Hmmm,” Trixie mused. “Maybe there is some justice in the world.” 

“Oh, Beatrice,” Tommy sighed. 

“Nobody calls me that, you know.” 

“And what do they call you?  _ Trixie?”  _

“ _ Yes _ ,” she hissed. “Actually,  _ yes _ , they do. Bea, if you’re—”  _ If you’re Luca,  _ which he wasn’t. “If you knew me before I became like...like this.” 

“There are no innocents in Birmingham,” he repeated, though this time sounding like he was resigning himself to a fact that even he wasn’t pleased with. 

“Give me the cigarette,” she replied, holding her hand out. 

“You know we’re not  _ actually engaged?”  _ he mocked, but still handed her the roll. Trixie held it for a moment without smoking, just rolling it back and forth between her thumb and her forefinger. “I’ll offer you a deal,” Tommy said suddenly. 

Trixie raised an eyebrow. That would make three deals while he was high, and two tonight alone. “A deal?” she asked. 

He nodded. “Those guns, bane of our existence as they’ve been, are going to pay off soon enough. And I’m planning an expansion, into Billy Kimber’s territory. The Peaky Blinders are soon going to be involved in legitimate business.” 

“‘ _ Legitimate business…’” _ Trixie repeated dubiously. 

“I’ll get you your house in the countryside,” said Tommy, “if you can keep up the lie until then.” 

Her heart stuttered in her chest. “ _ If? _ ” she asked. “Why is it an  _ if,  _ there’s no fucking reason for me not to.” She thought about Campbell’s offer. While Trixie knew well enough that moving to New York on her own as a Black woman with connections to a family known for making enemies would be a terrible idea, Tommy had clearly underestimated her in the past. If Campbell had alluded to the deal, he might think she would take it. 

“Call it an insurance policy,” said Tommy, plucking the cigarette back from her fingers and taking a long, heavy drag. 

The deal bothered her. She knew Tommy didn’t trust her, but she hadn’t thought it was  _ this bad.  _ “So...a buyout,” she surmised. “You’re paying me to walk away, so you can run this business without outsider interference.” 

He shrugged, but he didn’t deny it. Trixie wanted to slap him, but there was a gnawing bitter animal clawing at the inside of her stomach, one that insisted on a strange mixture of guilt, anger, and gratitude, because how  _ dare  _ Tommy Shelby try to take her out of the business, and how  _ dare  _ he give her everything she wanted and twist it into something miserable, and how dare  _ she  _ make him worried about her own loyalty. 

“You could still visit Ada, and all,” said Tommy. “Polly, too. I don’t care if you see them.” 

“Does Polly know what you’re trying to do?” Trixie prayed to God that she didn’t. So Tommy Shelby didn’t trust her—it was old news by now. But if she’d ever fucked up enough to lose Polly’s faith, Trixie would never be able to forgive herself. 

“You think Polly would let me if she knew?” Tommy asked indignantly. “Polly’s it in her head that you’re irreplaceable.” 

“And you disagree,” Trixie filled in. 

“It’s not personal. But there are plenty of men out of work, men who are good with numbers.” 

She sorely regretted mentioning the house in the countryside to him, she regretted telling him what she’d wanted at all. But, she noted, as she looked around her own apartment, this life was going to get her jailed or killed eventually. This was a way out. A kindness. Mercy. Trixie was capable of this work, she knew she was, but there came a point where pride receded and reason took over. She didn’t need to die to prove herself to Tommy Shelby; she could take what she wanted. 

“Three bedrooms,” she said. 

“One bedroom, and I’ll toss in the shelves for your books,” he countered. 

“Two bedrooms,  _ and _ you’ll pay for the shelves.” 

He made a face. “The fuck do you need two bedrooms for?” 

“Where the fuck are the books supposed to go?” she retorted. “I can’t very well put them in the kitchen.” 

He sighed, and held the cigarette out to her. Trixie accepted it and took a drag to make the minutes pass faster. “Fine,” he agreed. “Two bedrooms and some shelves.” 

“Wanna shake on it?” she asked, affecting boredom. “Another deal struck in the late-night hours between Beatrice Price, who is praying to God she isn’t being fooled, and Tommy Shelby, high as a kite like the last two times.” 

Almost petulantly, he stuffed his hands into his pockets. Like she’d made the deal too unappealing for him to accept, or at least too pathetic to shake on. “S’late,” he observed rather helpfully. Trixie rolled her eyes. 

“It was a good deal,” she commended. “Don’t let it get to your head, but it was a good deal. Tied your fate to mine.” Passing the cigarette back to Tommy, she pulled the blankets back up over her chest and began sliding back down until she was on her back. 

Tommy gave a halfhearted shrug and took a drag, before stubbing it out on the lid of his cigarette tin. “Oldest trick in the book,” he said. 

Trixie didn’t say anything to that, didn’t give any indication that she’d heard him. Instead, she pulled the blankets up even higher and willed herself to sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fuck it long chapter time...honestly, I’m not completely happy with this but I also have been editing and rewriting bits of it for the last few days and I’m satisfied enough to publish it. Anyway, please let me know what you thought! I had so much fun writing Tommy bullying James, and also writing Tommy being obnoxiously all-over-the-place because he doesn’t know how he feels about Trixie or why he feels what he does about Trixie, he’s just a hot mess. 
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed last chapter!! I loved reading all of your thoughts :) Also thank you to everyone who wished me luck with the fires, they’re not as bad near me (I’m in Southern California) but it’s still an odd time to be witnessing. I hope everyone is staying safe and doing well! I will see you all for the next chapter, hopefully on Sunday!
> 
>  **Chapter 11** / _Where Evil Grows_
> 
> “Who’s that?” Grace asked, peering around the corner of the office to the scene playing out in the Garrison. 
> 
> Trixie grabbed onto Grace’s wrist and dragged her back. She should’ve played dumb, but the answer had already materialized so fluently on her tongue, a realization of her own as much as an answer to Grace’s question. “Billy Kimber,” she said. “That is Billy Kimber.” 


	12. Where Evil Grows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **(tw for police brutality)** So sorry if this sounds like a jarring transition, as I added this bit just before publishing, but before I get into the actual chapter I want to mention something that’s really really important—following the decision not to charge Jonathan Mattingly, Brett Hankison, or Myles Cosgrove for the murder of Breonna Taylor, the mayor of Louisville, Kentucky has declared a State of Emergency tonight (9/23/2020) so that the LMPD will have legal grounds to brutalize those who participate in the protests tonight. 
> 
> If you’re financially able, please, please, please **donate to the The Bail Project** and encourage your friends and family to donate as well (if they’re in a position to). If police behavior at previous protests indicates anything, they’ll likely be using rubber bullets and tear gas on protestors whether or not they’re peaceful (and the police have shown no regard for the respiratory pandemic, which is also disproportionately affecting Black Americans) and organizers are going to need as much financial support as they can get to assist with medical care, bail, and legal costs. Breonna Taylor, and all Black women who have been brutalized by the American legal system, deserve justice. Those who seek it for them should not be punished by even more brutality. 
> 
> If you want to learn more about the case and what you can do, visit standwithbre dot com. Thank you.
> 
> listen to this chapter’s soundtrack [here.](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1LWyimukAG2rrrf4fVfrmI?si=nthJc5lyTLOXhYMbSWMD_g)

_ “Or do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit within you, whom you have from God? You are not your own, for you were bought with a price. So glorify God in your body.”  _ —1 Corinthians 6:19-20

* * *

When Tommy woke up—sometime around three, according to his pocket watch—he wasn’t surprised. His body had rejected sleep with some degree of violence since returning from the war. A sideways glance at Trixie indicated that she did not experience the same predicament; she slept silently, curled into a tight ball, jaw locked. 

For a long moment, he didn’t move; just laid there on his back, staring up at the ceiling, trying to force himself to enjoy the moment of peace and fucking quiet. It didn’t last long—soon, the itch in his fingers had him reaching for the pack of cigarettes on the end table. Tommy smoked and rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and then reflected on his conversation with Trixie from night previous. She’d been so annoyed, so devoutly unafraid of him. He found it equal parts irritating and fascinating. Now, she slept, even with the knowledge that he had a gun within arm’s reach. What kind of person did that? They were reciprocal, he realized. Tommy didn’t mind Trixie, but he didn’t trust her either. On the other hand, she had nothing but disdain to offer, and still trusted him enough to sleep in his presence. 

Growing up, when the boys were learning to fight, John and Arthur had always been stronger. But Tommy—Polly had taught Tommy something else to help him make up for the difference.  _ Make them afraid of you, Tommy. And if they’re not afraid of you, then you should be afraid of them.  _

Maybe that held true with the other families; the bigger gangsters down in London, even with Billy fucking Kimber, if he took Polly’s word for it. But it couldn’t possibly hold true for the woman who was sleeping beside him, who even Finn could probably beat in a fight, who wore those delicate gloves to keep her hands clean from a city coated in ash and dirt and grime. On the surface, she was barely worth a second glance. Then again—neither was Grace, and she’d proven hardly innocent. Tommy had been in the game long enough to know that nobody was as they seemed in Birmingham. If Trixie wasn’t afraid of him, then that had to mean something. 

When the cigarette was little more than a stub, he lifted his legs over the side of the bed and sat up, ignoring the way his head throbbed from whatever combination of exhaustion, thirst, and a hangover he’d subjected his body to. By now, it was nothing noteworthy, the dull ache all that kept him company. 

He left quietly, buckling his holster and buttoning his coat. Even in the state he was in, wearing a nightshirt, vestless, Tommy was more put-together and better aware of the streets than the other men who were out at this hour, and probably a better shot, too. As he opened the door, he cast one last look at Trixie, brazen and unafraid, even in sleep. 

* * *

Tommy was gone by the time Trixie woke up in the morning. It didn’t surprise her—she’d felt the mattress dip under his weight as he’d risen several hours earlier, and even if she’d managed to sleep through the fact, Tommy’s reliance on opium to get to sleep indicated some sort of insomnia. 

It relieved her to wake up alone—it spared Trixie the awkward conversation and the getting ready and the need to rehash all that had happened the night before. 

She spent her morning as she usually would, delighting in James’ notable absence as she soaked in the tub. As far as he knew, she was spending the morning with her fiance. If she went back into town, she might even be able to avoid him for the rest of the day. 

Even with the relief that came with James leaving her alone, Trixie felt heavy with guilt at the second deal from the night previous. Tommy had tried to buy her out and she’d just...let him. Birmingham was her whole life, and she hadn’t put up much of a fight when he asked her to walk away. What if it was a test? What if he’d tell Polly about how easily she’d been persuaded? The thoughts occupied her mind all through the morning, as she dressed and ate and walked the distance to the Garrison. She just needed to get away from home, she just needed to clear her head. 

The plan didn’t stand for long. Almost as soon as she had stepped inside the pub, Trixie found herself colliding with Grace, who was looking pretty in a flowy white top and a long skirt. She swerved, the tray of drinks in her hand only barely missing Trixie’s face as she swung away. “Oh my—Miss Price!” she exclaimed. “I’m so sorry.” 

Trixie shook her head, even though her grip on the door behind her was white-knuckled. “It’s alright.” 

Grace deposited the drinks at a nearby booth before rounding back over to greet Trixie a second time. “Sorry again,” she apologized. “You caught me by surprise.” 

“It’s no matter,” Trixie insisted. “Has it been busy today?” she asked, following Grace back to the counter, where she took a seat at the bar. 

“Not too bad for a Saturday,” the blonde replied. “Gin?” 

“Coffee, please, actually.” 

Their conversation paused for a bit as Grace fixed Trixie a cup. She’d remembered how Trixie preferred her coffee already, pouring a healthy serving of milk into the cup and skipping the sugar before sliding the saucer and mug across the bar. At noon, the bar was already crowded, men shouting and laughing and drinking, and Trixie couldn’t help but feel so strangely out of place in her navy blue dress. It was only a matter of time before James showed up, though, and she forced herself to enjoy the break while it lasted. 

“Saturday morning’s not a bad shift,” Grace remarked. “I’m surprised more people don’t go to the cafe instead.” 

Trixie shook her head. “Italian owned. The men here don’t like Italians much.” 

It was why she steered clear, at least. Hatmaker, fine. Seamstress, alright. Those were women’s professions, but the cafe was mostly a front for their less legitimate business, and the men there knew well enough by now whose side Trixie was on. She wasn’t safe there. 

“Didn’t realize there were boundaries in Small Heath,” Grace remarked. “You know them well?” 

With a shrug, Trixie lifted the coffee cup to her lips and took a very polite sip. “After a while, some things just become clear. Competing businesses aren’t much for having Shelbys as customers. Or their fiances.” 

“Makes enough sense,” said Grace. “I’m afraid I’m not too familiar.” 

Trixie smiled. “Pretty girl like you will be fine. As long as you manage to stay neutral, you’ll do alright for yourself.” 

“Birmingham doesn’t strike me as a place with many neutral parties,” Grace remarked. “There’s too much changing to go without choosing a side.” 

“I didn’t choose my side, really,” Trixie said. “It was….necessitated by my circumstances.” That wasn’t wrong, really. 

“Is that why you’re engaged to Tommy?” she asked. “Something political?” 

Trixie smothered a grimace and did her best not to induce some kind of stroke as she replied, “No—no, we love each other.” 

“He seems like a difficult man.”

“He  _ is,”  _ Trixie agreed emphatically, before she could stop herself. The night before had hammered it in so much more than she’d already believed. Tommy was difficult to talk to, difficult to be around, difficult to impress, and—probably worst of all—difficult to understand.  _ I like you fine.  _ He’d denied any ill will towards her, and yet made such a point of trying to get her out of his life as quickly as he possibly could. What was liking to a man who bartered in trust?  _ Worthless,  _ she supplied.  _ Totally and completely worthless.  _ But it wasn’t like she could tell Grace that. “He’s very sweet, deep down,” Trixie insisted. “It’s just...how hard his life has been...it does things to a person.” What was she even  _ saying  _ at this point? Trixie lifted the cup and took a nervous gulp to keep herself from talking any more. 

“Haven’t we all seen terrible things?” Grace asked. “You lost your parents, I’ve lost my father. And you’re still perfectly decent.” 

Trixie considered it. Somehow, it wasn’t the same. All the wounds she bore might have measured up to what she knew of Tommy, but that was still relatively little. His parents, his time in the war, his life before taking over the Peaky Blinders. She resisted the urge to defend him on principle, even though she knew it would be the fairest thing to do. 

“He’s decent,” she argued half-heartedly, just to say something. 

“He called me a whore,” Grace volleyed, though she had the nerve to look good-natured about the incident. Trixie wanted to share her similar experience with the man, but she bit her tongue. “I heard a rumor once that he tried to throw you into the canal.”

Trixie didn’t have a good excuse for that, and frankly, she didn’t want to. It wasn’t like she agreed with his decision to nearly throw her to her death. So she just shrugged. It was clear that Grace just wanted to find some common ground, weaken whatever bond Trixie had towards Tommy, but it was futile—he’d been pulling away from her with some degree of violence since the day they met. 

“How else have you been spending your time?” Trixie asked. “Besides working.” 

Grace shrugged, making a poor attempt at busying herself with a rag as she wiped the bartop down. “Taking walks. Trying to familiarize myself with the area. I was thinking today I might go to the movies, unless you have a better idea for spending a Saturday afternoon.” 

“No idea,” Trixie said. “I was planning on spending my day at home.” 

Grace beamed in a way that made Trixie feel like she was in trouble. “You could give me that tour then, finally,” she mentioned casually. “Help a fellow lady navigate the streets here.” 

Trixie felt very little solidarity towards a white cop attempting to ruin her life, despite her sex. Still, she had to give Grace credit: she’d trapped her, and now, it would look rather odd for her to refuse the offer. Plus, as much as Grace managed to stress Trixie out, James was infinitely worse, and if they got out of town, he couldn’t hunt her down hold her hostage with a conversation on Epicureanism and Cynicism. “I think if we went—if we started out of town, maybe we could go to the museum in the countryside. Skies are bluer there. We could work our way back, after.” 

“That sounds lovely,” said Grace, taking a deep breath and smiling again, this time more gently. Almost genuine. “My shift ends at 1, we can take the train out.” 

Trixie had never been on the train, truthfully. Whenever her father took her to the countryside growing up, it was in the back of a horse-drawn caravan. Trains, and cars, and motorcycles were all still foreign to her. What use did she have for them? Still, she agreed. “Alright—the train.” 

For the rest of the hour, she sipped on her coffee and read through the newspaper. News about the King, news about the races, news about the bonfire, with Tommy’s quote notably absent. America was trying to ban alcohol, strangely enough—Trixie laughed at that. BSA strikes had disappeared from the pages, though Trixie doubted that they’d continued, with Campbell in town to reign terror on any suspected communists. By the time she’d reached the news of Monaghan Boy’s loss, Grace was untying her apron and gathering her purse from the back office. She called a quick farewell to Harry, and then stepped out from behind the bar. 

“I’ve got just enough money for the fare, I think,” she said. “And hopefully for admission to the museum, if it’s not too much.” 

Trixie didn’t know how much the museum cost, because she’d never actually been there, so she just nodded and said, “I’m sure it’s not too much.” Worst case scenario, she’d cover Grace’s ticket.  _ Though _ , she thought bitterly,  _ Grace probably qualifies for some reduced fee by working for the Crown.  _ Not like that was going to help her now, though. 

Walking around Birmingham with another woman felt strangely vulnerable. Alone, Trixie was invisible, known only for her association with the Peaky Blinders. With Ada, or Polly, or John, nobody in their right mind would think about approaching her. But with Grace by her side, people were paying attention. 

Well _ ,  _ she thought lamely, if anyone  _ did  _ decide to pick a fight, at least Grace probably knew how to fight. In the long run, it wasn’t ideal, but for now they were at least pretending to be on the same side. 

Grace folded her arms across her torso gently, the strap of her handbag looped around one wrist as she looked up at the buildings around them. “Do the fires ever scare you?”

“I’ve learned to tune them out,” Trixie said. “And to cross the street to avoid them. The flares can burn you badly if you’re too close, and they’re hard to predict.” 

“Hard to believe it rains this much and people still manage to sustain them,” Grace remarked. She dug around in her purse for a moment before holding something out to Trixie. “Cigarette?” 

The tin that Grace had were not like Trixie’s cigarettes, or the cigarettes any of the people around her smoked. They were the women’s brand—faster burning, and more expensive. It was a scam, but maybe Grace didn’t know that. Or maybe she just didn’t care. Trixie didn’t comment, accepting the cigarette instead, and paying Grace back with a light of her match. 

Trixie knew the way to the train station despite never having taken the train herself—she often met messengers at the platform to pick up race results, or on one occasion, had been the designated escort for one of the Peaky Blinders’ business suppliers. After a mostly quiet walk, they each bought a ticket, and found their seats on the most recently arrived train heading out of town. There was no real reason to be nervous, Trixie knew, but her heart fluttered in her chest nonetheless. Trains were safe, trains were common, now. And if something bad did happen, she’d take Grace down with her, and she could die knowing it was in service to the Peaky Blinders, the only family she had left. 

“I love the train,” Grace commented. “It’s quite nice to just sit and watch the world go by. Almost feels like a film.” 

“I’ve never been on one until now,” Trixie revealed, pressing back nervously against the leather seat. “It’s not bad, is it?” 

“It’s faster than a horse,” Grace said. “But it’s smoother, too. Not as much bouncing around.” 

Oh, thank God. Trixie got nauseous on horseback most of the time, and the way the movement made her teeth buzz gave her a headache. Smooth was good. Fast, she would just have to deal with. 

“I’m not good on horse,” Trixie admitted. 

“I hear Tommy enjoys the races,” Grace said. “Is he much for riding horses, too? Or just watching?” 

She flashed back to the night before, to the wreck he’d been after having to execute one of the horses at his stables. Somehow, the terror in his eyes had made him more human than anything else.  _ Yes,  _ she thought to say,  _ Tommy likes horses.  _ But she stopped short—Tommy was fond of riding around town on horseback; surely Grace would’ve seen him by now. Surely, despite everything Trixie had said about Tommy being a businessman, Grace had put together that he made his money in the races. 

“He likes horses, yes,” Trixie said, trying to come up with something to supplement Grace’s existing knowledge. “He spends quite a bit of time at the stables. I think it helps him get his mind off of things.” Whether or not that was true, Trixie hadn’t a fucking clue, but it sounded right. “Do you like horses?” 

“I love horses,” Grace said. “My mother taught me to ride when I was growing up.”

“Is she still in Galway?” Trixie asked. 

Grace nodded. “My brothers, too. Paul and Henry. They’re twins.” 

“How old?” 

“Seventeen, about. Paul’s gone into the Church, Henry’s trying to open a bakery, I think. Or a bar. He changes his ambitions so often it’s difficult to keep up.” 

“I wish I’d had siblings,” Trixie confessed. 

The train whistled, and then lurched forward suddenly—er, backwards, actually. Trixie glanced out the window and realized she’d chosen a seat facing the city, which meant that the train car was dragging her backwards into the countryside. 

Grace had been right about the smoothness—the train picked up speed easily and began gliding along the tracks almost like they were ice, but the speed wasn’t all that notable, once they’d hit a steady pace, and Trixie slid forward a bit from the acceleration evening out. 

Strategically, it was probably not a good idea to have a back to her destination. Trixie’s view of Birmingham was clear, smoke plumes and crowds and horses and all, but she didn’t need to know what was happening back home, when what lay beyond the city’s boundaries was so much more unfamiliar. Which of them had sat down first? She strained to remember, but it hadn’t felt worth noting at the time. It wasn’t out of the question to think that Grace had done this on purpose. 

“Siblings are a lot of energy,” Grace said delicately. “Half the time, they’re your best friends in the world.” 

“And the other half?” 

She shrugged. “Other half you want to kill them.” 

That seemed more than fair, if the Shelbys were anything to go off of—but then again, they were hardly a typical example of anything. “Tumultuous,” Trixie remarked. 

“The best things in life are,” Grace concurred. 

They spent the rest of the train ride in quiet that Trixie couldn’t categorize as easy or uncomfortable. Grace seemed content enough to stare out the window, and soon, Trixie had also discovered that watching the trees fly by was quite hypnotizing. The temptation to relax, though, was easily disrupted by hard-to-ignore fact that they were rivals in the middle of a massive police operation. 

Under different circumstances, Trixie wondered, would they have ever been friends? There seemed to be something genuine about Grace’s kindness towards her, however strategic it might be. Maybe she thought Trixie was being held hostage by the Shelbys; maybe she wanted to rescue her. Even for Trixie, it was difficult to peel back her own lies and comprehend how she felt about Grace. Was it loneliness that drove her to reveal honest parts of herself? Or did she actually find her company enjoyable? 

By the time they arrived at the museum, the sky had lightened into a pale blue that almost made Trixie want to cry. Round, white clouds meandered across the sky lazily, beautiful in a way that almost felt impossible. It was so distracting, in fact, that she nearly fell face-first off the train as they were disembarking—Grace had needed to grab onto her shoulder to steady her. 

Even entering the museum created separation that made Trixie grieve the blue sky outside. The elaborate mosaic ceilings were hardly boring, thousands of pieces of glass fabricating a scene of angels above them, but it was nothing compared to the real thing. 

“Are you a fan of art?” Grace asked. 

“I don’t know much about it,” Trixie replied. “I haven’t seen many paintings in person.” Luca, though, Luca had been a fanatic, rambling always about Caravaggio and Michaelangelo, beaming with a mix of pride over his heritage and awe at their talents. He would’ve loved this. If they had been able to afford it, she would’ve brought him here just to hear him gush about the statues and pictures in terms she didn’t understand. 

“Did your school never bring you here when you were growing up?” 

“I didn’t go to school,” Trixie replied. “I wasn’t allowed. My father taught me to read, and the rest, I learned from books I picked up.” 

She didn’t seem to know how to respond to that, so she just nodded, hanging her coat to the coat check attendant. Trixie warily followed—what an odd job to have. She’d never seen anything like it. Were the wealthy so delicate they couldn’t hang their own jackets? 

As they weaved through the museum, mostly in silence, Trixie stared up politely at the large oil paintings of Christ, angels, saints. Eventually, they reached a wing devoted solely to marble statues, faces carved from stone in a way that almost made it look soft, like she might reach out for their hands and find them warm. 

They reminded her of Tommy, she realized suddenly. He was more dead than he should’ve been, and these figures here, before her, were more alive than should’ve been possible. Their sharp faces, their empty eyes, they elicited the same kind of reverence she had to wrestle back. 

“You like that one?” Grace asked, and Trixie started, yanking her eyes away from the statue so suddenly she felt like something had snapped. She hadn’t even realized that she’d locked onto any one of them in particular—this was Roman, a man staring off at some fixed point behind her. It had to be six feet tall, the contours and bends of his muscles highlighted by the chandelier overhead, the curves of his lips and the cut of his jaw painfully familiar. Maybe it was fine for her to be staring at it so immodestly—or, maybe it would’ve been, if the man in the statue wasn’t completely nude. She chewed the inside of her cheek, a dozen different passages about shame coming to mind.  _ Then desire when it has conceived gives birth to sin, and sin when it is fully grown brings forth death.  _

But desire wasn’t—that wasn’t what she felt. It couldn’t be. 

“What?” she asked dumbly, blinking as she comprehended Grace’s question.  _ You like that one? Did  _ she like that one? A face like Tommy’s, and a body that was so shamelessly out in the open. Trixie resisted the urge to bury her face in her hands out of embarrassment. “Oh,” she started, when she realized she’d been silent for quite some time. “It’s just—striking, is all.” 

“They’re quite beautiful,” Grace agreed. 

Beautiful wasn’t the right word for something that unnerved her so much. Trixie gritted her teeth against the way it seemed to pull so brutally at her stomach. The stark white of the marble almost made her eyes ache, and yet, she couldn’t make herself look away. It was more terrifying than anything. 

“It’s something, certainly,” Trixie murmured. She couldn’t bear to look at it any longer, so she pulled away from it. “Well,” she asked, turning towards Grace. “What else is there to see?” 

* * *

After hours of carefully avoiding eye contact with every portrait they passed, Trixie had allowed Grace to lead the pair back to the train station and into town. The plan was to walk for a bit around the Italian Quarter, after, but they’d gotten sidetracked talking about their childhoods, and wandered into the Garrison instead. 

Public drunkenness was hardly ladylike, but the pair were three drinks down each and beginning to grow giggly at the stories they were telling. Grace, now, was recounting in extreme detail the time she lost her virginity. A boy in school, who had then attempted to propose to her after graduation, only to leave down suddenly after she refused. When Grace raised her eyebrow and gestured to Trixie, Trixie blanched. 

“I don’t suppose I can tell that story,” Trixie said. “It never happened.” 

Grace gasped, and then covered her mouth with her hand, laughing into her palm. “I’m sorry—just—I didn’t think Tommy would be the kind to remain celibate until marriage.” 

Oh...oh _ no.  _ Trixie had momentarily forgotten that she and Tommy were supposed to be engaged. She’d been so careful about the rest of the things she’d shared, only really talking about her childhood and her teenage years, but that had just...slipped out. And it didn’t make sense at all, really, because there was no way that Tommy was alright with killing in cold blood but conservative when it came to sexual morality—it was so ridiculous it almost made her laugh, but the,n Trixie was suddenly  _ thinking  _ about it in a way that made her want to dunk her brain into a bucket of soap but also made her pulse start flying. He had such an ego, such confidence, that he had to be good at it. Or at least have done it a  _ lot _ . Oh—for the love of  _ Christ.  _ She needed to stop thinking about this. 

“He has...before,” she clarified, narrowing her eyes and willing the image out of her mind. “Before he met me.” Technically not false, she presumed. Trixie was just letting her believe that Tommy also hadn’t in the months since she met him. “I was the one who wanted to wait.” 

“Well, priest for a father,” Grace surmised, as if that explained the whole thing. 

Before Trixie could say anything in response, the pub doors flew open. The crowd seemed to collectively jump, and she straightened in her chair to see if Tommy had come in—it wasn’t Tommy, though, but a man with a rather odd half-mustache and a miserable-looking middle part, flanked at either side by two men in bowler hats, brandishing pistols. 

“Holy shit,” said Harry, from behind the bar. 

“Is there any man here named Shelby?” he called, accent thick. 

Nobody moved, though Trixie knew the answer to that question was a resounding yes. The sudden commotion had sobered her up somewhat, and now she was sitting stiffly on the barstool and eying the newcomers carefully. Grace was staring at her sideways, but Trixie didn’t meet her eyes. She was too focused on the most present threat. 

The man lifted his pistol into the air and fired a warning shot. The bullet lodged itself in the ceiling, sending chips of paint toppling down into the crowd. Trixie jumped at the sudden noise, but she noticed that Grace hadn’t. 

“I  _ said,”  _ he shouted, “Is there any man here named Shelby?” 

Trixie would blame the alcohol for her slow-thinking in putting it all together, but she realized with a start that this man had to be Billy Kimber. Who else had Tommy gone and pissed off recently? Well—who else had Tommy pissed off, who could also afford to dress in a tailored three-piece suit and be accompanied by two armed musclemen? 

The door to the Shelbys’ private room swung open, and Tommy strolled out, looking irritated, with his brothers not far behind. “Harry, get these men a drink,” he demanded. With a wave of his arm, he added, “Everybody else, go home.” 

Trixie swallowed. This was her business—she couldn’t just  _ go home.  _ She was also drunk, and with James lurking nearby, ready to lecture her patronizingly, she was hardly enthused by the idea of seeing him. 

So instead, in the commotion, she hooked her arm through Grace’s and hopped off the stool, ducking below the back of the bar and moving into the office. She tossed a look over her shoulder, out of habit, and met Tommy’s eyes. He knew she was listening. 

Following Trixie’s lead, Grace sat with her back to the cabinets. If, for whatever reason, Kimber decided to start shooting, this was the safest part of the room. 

“Who’s that?” Grace asked, peering around the corner of the office to the scene playing out in the Garrison. 

Trixie grabbed onto Grace’s wrist and dragged her back. She should’ve played dumb, but the answer had already materialized so fluently on her tongue, a realization of her own as much as an answer to Grace’s question. “Billy Kimber,” she said. “That is Billy Kimber.” 

“Billy Kimber...who runs the races?” Grace asked. 

Trixie nodded. She could make out their conversation outside if she focused hard enough. Chair legs screeched as they were pulled across the floor. Even this far removed, Trixie could envision the situation—Tommy and his brothers, Billy and his guards. They’d need to sit at the same table, six seats shoved tightly together for equity in the sake of negotiation. It never quite looked as natural as the Shelby men seemed to think it did, but that hardly ever stopped them. 

“ _ Some Diddicoy razor gang...I thought to myself, ‘So what?’”  _ Kimber was saying. “ _ But then you fuck me over.”  _

Well, that they had. Tommy seemed to make a habit of humiliating anyone who underestimated him. 

“ _ So now you have my undivided attention.”  _

“What does he want here?” Grace asked. 

Trixie resisted the urge to  _ shush  _ her, remembering the woman she was supposed to be right now. “I think Tommy may owe him money,” she said. 

“Isn’t Tommy quite well-off?” Grace asked. 

At this point, she was just prying, but Trixie humored her anyway. “Sometimes Tommy gets into debt because he doesn’t feel like paying someone back.” 

“ _ Who’s the boss?”  _ Kimber asked. 

A beat of silence. “ _ Well, I’m the oldest.”  _ Arthur. 

Something muffled, and then John burst out accusingly, “ _ Are you making fun of my brother?”  _

“ _ Right, so...he’s the oldest, you’re the thickest, and I’m told the boss is called Tommy, so I’m guessing that’s you.”  _

Trixie furrowed her brow, crawling over Grace’s legs rather inelegantly, before standing up and pressing her back to the door. A curtain obscured her view out, nailed to the top of the window and then again to the bottom, but the fabric hung loosely, and there was a little give for her to pull it back and peer outside. 

“ _ Trixie _ ,” Grace hissed, looking slightly panicked. Trixie ignored her. Outside, Tommy was smoking a cigarette casually as if Billy Kimber wasn’t able and willing to shoot him. That was just Tommy, Trixie thought. Any situation that warranted fear, he confronted with steely calm. 

“I want to know what you want,” Tommy said. 

“There were suspicious betting patterns at Kempton Park,” a bespectacled man at Kimber’s side shared. “A horse called Monaghan Boy. He won by a length twice and then finished last with three-thousand bets placed on him.” 

Well, that certainly added up. Trixie’s eyes slid over to Grace, who was also listening intently to the conversation. She wasn’t sure, exactly, how she would explain this to the other woman, but it wasn’t the biggest problem they were facing at this exact moment. 

“Which one am I talking to?” Tommy asked, his voice a low rumble. “Which one of you is the boss?” 

The bespectacled man surveyed the table. “I am Mr. Kimber’s advisor and accountant.” 

Trixie scowled. She was Tommy’s accountant, but she was cowering in the back room instead of negotiating. It was for the sake of the act, she knew, but that was little comfort for the bitter taste that suddenly filled her mouth. 

“And I’m the  _ fucking  _ boss,” Kimber asserted, standing up in his chair. With his scarf still swinging around his neck, it was hard to find him intimidating. “Okay, right, end of parley. You fixed a race without my permission.” Trixie flinched at the slurs that followed, words melting together as he waved his finger around in accusation. If this was how he did business, then maybe Tommy was right. Maybe he  _ was  _ there for the taking—after all, if he was this fucking volatile, she didn’t imagine he would be all too successful in building trust within the community. “I am  _ Billy Kimber! _ ” he shouted. “I run the  _ fucking _ races! You fixed one of them, so I’m going to have you  _ shot against a post! _ ” Or maybe not. Maybe his volatility was exactly why he wasn’t to be trifled with. 

Out of surprise, Trixie found herself looking to Grace; the only thing that comforted her was that Grace had done the same, and now the two of them were sharing a wide-eyed stare. 

Back outside, Kimber was shoving his seat back and storming out, only for Tommy to cut him off and toss something his way. “Look at it,” he said, lacking his usual authority. “That’s my name on it. It’s from the Lee family.” 

Trixie sighed. It was getting difficult to keep track of everyone Tommy was making enemies with. She hoped to God they never got around to meeting each other. 

Tommy’s voice was so low that Trixie couldn’t make it out, just the sturdy line of his shoulders, the way his body held itself with such assuredness, even in the face of a threat on his life. The room was stilled with consideration, Tommy’s silvertongue stalling as he gave Kimber a reason to reconsider. And then—like a bullet through a window—Kimber tossed something back at Tommy and ordered, “Pick it up _.”  _

All at once, John and Arthur rose from their seats, sending their chairs clattering over, and when they moved, Kimber’s men stepped forward, pulling out their guns. In the middle of it all, Tommy bent over, waving a dismissive hand at the table as he picked whatever it was up from the floor. 

Kimber turned on his heel and stormed out the door, his men following quickly behind him. “Trixie?” Grace asked. “Trixie? What’s going on?” 

But her voice barely registered. Because across the Pub, while John and Arthur were yelling at the door, Tommy was staring straight at her through the window. On his face he wore something like shame—shame that he’d capitulated to Kimber’s demands, shame that his men had witnessed it, shame that  _ she  _ had witnessed it. 

His stare, like the statue she’d been staring at this morning, unnerved her and thrilled her in a way that made her want to flinch and lean in all at once. It wasn’t a decision she was ready to make. So Trixie dropped the curtain instead, letting Tommy disappear into the creases of the red fabric. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone and thank you for reading! I apologize if this chapter was a bit slow, I realized there were some things I needed to start setting up for future chapters, and having Trixie spend the day hanging out with Grace seemed like a good way to get them out there. I’m also sorry that this chapter is delayed—school got very busy over the weekend and I went kind of bonkers trying to finish all my assignments and then I didn’t have time to wrap up my writing until today. 
> 
> Thank you so much J, JMBH, 15marba, lmenin, dirtygoldensoul, Luckylily, ferallahey, macademilk, Shareece, and Hannnnnnnnnnnnnah for reviewing! Please let me know what you thought of this chapter as well if you feel so compelled and I will see you soon for the first chapter of episode three! :)
> 
>  **Chapter 12** / _Liabilities_
> 
> “You see, Miss Price, I have the feeling you’ve been lying to me.” 
> 
> Trixie blinked at him dumbly. “And why ever would you think that?”


	13. Liabilities

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning:** this chapter includes police brutality and an assault (not a sexual assault) against Trixie in the final scene. If you have any questions or want to read an edited version, please feel free to message me and I'd be happy to provide you with a more accessible version. Please take care of yourselves when reading.
> 
> listen to this chapter’s soundtrack [here.](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6GYBVEXrIaOEAyS86YwPbS?si=_txfl4hbRIO84L1zk7A-Lg)

_ “Behold, I am sending you out as sheep in the midst of wolves, so be wise as serpents and innocent as doves.”  _ -Matthew 10:16

Birmingham was a large city, but Trixie had never felt so suffocated in Small Heath until three agents of the Crown were following her closely, waiting for her to slip up. She’d successfully completed an outing with Grace and endured conversation after bloody conversation with James, but those passing interactions were nothing compared to her meetings with Campbell—meetings that had slowed since Tommy’s deal and James’ arrival in town. Trixie had been prepared to stop them altogether; she figured that meant she could end her engagement sooner, but then, she’d gotten a telegram. 

It came as a bit of a shock, since the last telegram she’d received had been the one announcing Luca’s death years previous, but the message from Campbell was significantly harder to decode. 

**MISS BEATRICE PRICE — [STOP]**

**LET US SHARE IN THE BODY OF CHRIST AND DRINK AS JUDAS WOULD — [STOP] — BY THE TIME THE BOATS COME IN AT THE WEEK’S PEAK [STOP] — I WILL BE WAITING WITH BATED BREATH [STOP].**

**YOURS, CC**

Even for someone who had learned to read in a copy of the King’s Bible, Trixie had to sit down at her table with a pen and paper to figure out what, exactly, the message meant.  _ Let us share in the Body of Christ— _ Church.  _ Drink as Judas would— _ an exchange of information.  _ By the time the boats come in at the week’s peak  _ meant Wednesday, at seven in the morning.  _ I will be waiting with bated breath  _ was the part she struggled with most. Was there information she was meant to deliver to him? The only thing that had become anything new was Tommy’s impending war (alliance?) with Billy Kimber, and since Grace had been present for that entire exchange, it seemed likely that Campbell was already aware. And after all—what would it matter to him? Men were worth little when there were machine guns at stake. 

Before work on Wednesday, Trixie had pulled on a hat and a veil, suddenly grieving widow instead of hopeful bride. On her way to Saint Catherine’s, she caught a passing glance at herself in a store window and almost started. The woman in the reflection looked unreal, like a painting, or one of the ghosts in the gothic tales she was so fond of. That wasn’t Trixie—the mourning didn’t look good on her, no matter how much practice she had with it. It took a long moment before she found the strength to pull away and keep walking, quietly slipping between men on their way to work. 

In the Church, Campbell was waiting, as promised, in the priest’s confessional. Trixie settled opposite him, the screen dividing the two not enough to stifle his open-mouthed breathing. 

“Good morning, Inspector,” she greeted, chipper despite the headache blooming in the back of her skull. “Nice day out, isn’t it?” 

“Nice day if you enjoy inhaling ash and grime.” 

Trixie didn’t know what to say about that, as the memory of Campbell smoking a pipe was the first thing that came to mind, and sharing that probably wouldn’t get her anywhere. “I enjoyed your letter,” she said. If he wasn’t interested in small talk, he might as well explain the purpose of their meeting. 

“Sometimes, the most important things must be left unsaid.” 

“I’m not sure I follow.” 

Campbell heaved a sigh, as if disappointed. “I arranged this meeting because something concerning has recently come to my attention. You see, Miss Price,  I have the feeling you’ve been lying to me.” 

Trixie blinked at him dumbly. “And why ever would you think that?”

Campbell—to her surprise—had the audacity to laugh, fearsome and wheezing. “Oh, Miss Price. Does your involvement with the Shelbys ever extend  _ beyond  _ the personal?” 

She took a moment to measure out her next move. This certainly was not ideal, or expected, but that could sum up most of the last five years of Trixie’s life. By now, she knew how to handle being on the spot—and it wasn’t like Campbell had made it that  _ difficult.  _ A bit dumb, he’d commented. She’d just need to prove him right. “What do you mean, beyond personal?” she asked him. 

“Financial, maybe,” Campbell replied. “Perhaps professional.”

“Well—” she started. “He gives me an allowance every week.” Not wrong, technically, as long as one considered salary and allowance to be interchangeable. “I like to shop. It keeps me busy.” 

“What do you like to buy?” 

“Hats,” Trixie said, her voice flat. “I like hats. They add character to an outfit.”  _ Also  _ not wrong. Perhaps Campbell would also have some appreciation for fashion, given his penchant for the round-topped bowler hats, but probably not. 

“So there’s nothing more to your affiliation with the Shelbys than your...your  _ love  _ for that man?” Campbell asked. 

Love—always love. It was all anybody wanted to talk to her about these days: Ada’s wedding, her supposed engagement, even from  _ Tommy _ , all she seemed to get was  _ Good morning, darling  _ and  _ Where’s your ring, dearest?  _ Trixie thumbed the ring, a habit that had developed since he’d admitted his reason for giving it to her. She’d never had this particular tic when it came to Luca’s band, but something was always dragging her mind back to Tommy, and then back to that night, and then back to the things he’d said. 

“I loved him, once,” Trixie said simply. After rolling the words around in her mouth so many times, they came out without putting up such a fight. “That’s all. What else would there be?” 

Campbell stayed quiet for a moment, though Trixie could imagine him scratching his beard pensively on the other side of the dividing screen. “You love him, but you don’t live with him.” 

“I learned that living with a man before marriage was improper.” Trixie twisted the rock of the ring in a circle. “I’m a good girl, Inspector.” 

“And what’s taking so long with the wedding?” 

“Can I ask why you care?” 

Campbell, audacious as all hell, laughed again. “Well, no offense to the people of Birmingham, but you’re no Duchess, and he’s no Prince. There’s no reason for an engagement to last so long.” 

Pressing the hard corners of the gem into the pads of her fingers, Trixie considered this. There really wasn’t any good reason for such an extended engagement—a few months now, it had been, and it wasn’t as though they could actually go through with the marriage. It would need to be legitimate, so that Campbell could access the legal document if needed, and Trixie would never, ever,  _ ever  _ let it get that far. Death driving lovers apart was the will of God; divorce was pure evil, no matter how falsified the marriage was in the first place. 

“I’ve always wanted a spring wedding,” Trixie said. “The weather’s no good right now, so he told me we could wait. And then, well. I suppose it turned into a way for me to buy time to get away from him.” 

“You’d wait?” Campbell asked. “Put it off that long just for the sake of good weather?” 

Trixie let her eyes slide shut. “What else does a woman have to look forward to? I mean—now I have a chance to get out, but when I accepted his proposal I’d resigned myself to a life of misery, I figured I might find joy where I could.” 

Great. Now she was thinking about the house again—two bedrooms, and shelves for her books—and thinking about Tommy’s frigidity towards James, and thinking about his striking resemblance to those statues Grace had taken her to see last week, and she was in a fucking  _ Church  _ for Christ’s-fucking-sake. In a Church, dressed as a widow, lying to a policeman, and thinking again about the fact that Tommy Shelby had come to her to sleep off his high, had done so  _ in her bed.  _ She was going to hell. She needed to come back to the confessional sometime soon—when the priest would actually be present to hear her sins. 

“I suppose that’s fair. Women set their eyes on something and cling to it, no matter how silly,” Campbell conceded. “In any case, it’s for the best that you’re delaying the wedding. It would be a mess to divorce you from him after sending you away.” 

“It would be,” she said, thinking about the way Campbell and Tommy so paralleled each other—not in style, or motivation, or even ability, but in the way that they were both offering her a way out. New York or the countryside, police or family, safety or freedom. At some point, she wanted both of what they could give her; now, neither sat right. 

“Are we finished?” she asked, itching for a cigarette and a chat with Polly and some toast, if she was being perfectly honest. “I’m going to be late to an appointment.” 

“By all means,” Campbell said. “Thank you for your time, Beatrice. As always, your service has been immeasurably helpful.” 

His words were laced with something bitter, so Trixie didn’t bother with a response. This man wanted her to be pliable and quiet, clay waiting ready for his manipulation, while also wanting her to understand whatever passive-aggressive messages he was attempting to convey to her through a Church confessional. When he picked one, maybe she’d consider listening. But until then, she had work to do. 

* * *

Trixie had barely made it through the front door before John was cornering her by the coat rack. “Polly wants to see you.”

Her arms were suspended midair, in preparation to hang her peacoat. “Any reason in particular?” she asked, carefully perching the loop over the hook. 

“Wedding planning, maybe?” he teased, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. Trixie shoved him. “ _ Oy!”  _ he shouted, stumbling back slightly. She wasn’t any real match for him, but he’d humor her. “Watch it, Price, or you’ll face the wrath of the Peaky Blinders.” 

“Terrifying,” she deadpanned, smoothing down the skirt of her dress. “Are they a band?” 

John’s expression soured, and Trixie patted him on the shoulder with great fondness. “You’re lucky Tommy’s protective of you,” he warned, pointing at her. 

Trixie laughed in disbelief. “Yeah, alright, John. I’ll see you later.” Brushing past him, she headed through the sparsely populated betting parlor, towards Polly’s office. Inside, it smelled of tea and toast. Polly dotted jam across the top of her bread, her cigarette balancing delicately on the rim of her teacup. “Good morning, Poll,” said Trixie. 

“Mm, Trixie,” Polly greeted. “Shut the door, please.” 

Trixie obeyed, shutting the door before taking a seat across from Polly at the desk. The other woman brushed crumbs of toast from her hands and picked the cigarette back up off the teacup, reaching at the same time for a leather book on the side of the table. “John said you wanted to see me?” she asked. 

“How was your meeting with that copper?” 

Trixie blew out a breath. “He thinks I’m lying. Suspects I might be involved in the business somehow.” 

“And?” 

“And I played dumb. Said I’ve an affinity for the springtime.” 

“Good girl.” Polly thumbed the leather book open and flipped around until she found the page she was looking for. She slid the book across the table and Trixie reached for it, pulling it into her lap to inspect its contents. It was a property deed—one of the many places in Birmingham under the Peaky Blinders’ control. But she hadn’t seen this one before. The Garrison. 

“We own the Garrison now?” Trixie asked. She couldn’t imagine  _ why  _ they’d expand there, of all places. Harry’s fear of Tommy meant that the Peaky Blinders had all the perks of owning it with none of the monetary burden, so what need was there for any official financial investment? Trixie skimmed the conditions of the deal. The pub had been sold for a fairly low price, so the loss wasn’t too big. Still—there was no reasonable financial motivation. It had to be political, somehow, or personal. 

“Gift from Tommy to Arthur,” Polly replied. “Call it a consolation prize.” 

Both political  _ and  _ personal, then. Arthur had been pushed out of the business. Interesting. 

Trixie bit down on her tongue to avoid telling Polly about how she, too, was being pushed out of the business, and having property tossed her way as a consolation prize. She was a woman of her word; she’d promised Tommy secrecy, but that didn’t make it any easier to hide something this significant from Polly, who probably knew her better than anybody else at this point. All week, she’d been struggling to keep it to herself. On several occasions, she’d considered trying to amend the deal, but whenever she felt confident enough in the idea to try and pursue it, Tommy was nowhere to be found. He was either avoiding her, or fate had twisted itself in her favor several times in a row. Neither were good news—if the first, she ought to be concerned; if the second, well—it was only a matter of time before that pressure gave way to something terrible. 

“So we’ll be managing their business now?” Trixie asked, refocusing on the book before her. This was legitimate business; she’d have to polish up on her official accounting knowledge. “Or is Harry still in charge?” 

“Harry’ll be in charge of making drinks,” said Polly. “Arthur’s  _ in charge _ , but you and I both know he’s quite poor with numbers. I thought you might do it.” 

Shutting the book gently, Trixie looked back up at Polly. “Not sure if there are enough hours in the day for me to work here, fawn over Tommy, and keep the books at the Garrison.” 

Polly sighed. “Let me put it this way, alright? Someone at the Garrison needs to manage the books. If Arthur does it, the whole pub goes under and we’re operating at a loss. If it’s not Arthur, it’s Grace—and you know she’ll find ways to ask questions about where else we’re getting our money.” 

Trixie flattened her mouth into a line. It wasn’t that she minded taking on extra work; under normal circumstances, she would’ve accepted it easily. But at this rate, she was working four jobs for the Peaky Blinders: managing the race money, playing the role of Tommy’s fiance, dodging attention from  _ three  _ crown operatives, and now, helping Arthur with his arithmetic so he didn’t sink his arm of the business. 

Then again, she was on her way out the door anyway. Polly may not have been aware, but if Trixie weighed the amount of work being asked of her now against the amount of work she’d be doing a year from now, well—the answer was clear. 

“I’ll have to cut back hours here,” Trixie conceded. “If I’m to spend enough time there to balance their books properly.” 

“Less going on here anyway,” said Polly, “now that Tommy’s being watched like a fucking hawk by Kimber’s men.” She yanked the cigarette away from her mouth and huffed out a frustrated breath. “The nerve he has to ignore me. After all I’ve taught him.” 

“He’s certainly got nerve,” Trixie agreed easily. “Does he know I’ll be working at the Garrison?” Trixie asked. 

“Not his decision,” Polly replied. “If he has a problem with it, he can take it up with me.”

Fair enough. “Grace—that barmaid—she thinks I’m just a housewife,” Trixie said. “Is there—am I to tell her anything in particular?” 

Polly shrugged. “Tell her you’re being dragged against your will into the family’s business. She’ll think she’s gaining your trust if she sees a wedge driven between you and Tommy. Women’s business.” 

Trixie resisted the urge to laugh. There would be no point to a wedge between her and Tommy. As far as she was concerned, they were already on opposite shores of a very wide sea. 

* * *

Part of what brought her to the Garrison was work, but mostly, Trixie just needed a coffee. Between James’ rousing late-night conversations, Campbell’s early-morning meetings, and the regular stress of managing finances for the great Shelby Empire, she was well on her way to falling asleep upright like a horse. 

When she pulled the door open, she found the Pub surprisingly busy. Men at the counter shouted for drinks, and Harry made quick work of delivering their orders, but Grace stood by idly at the pocket window towards the Shelbys’ private room, half-heartedly drying glasses with a towel. 

_ She’s listening.  _ Something important was happening in that room, and she was listening. 

Trixie threw herself forward, sliding onto the barstool closest to where the other woman was standing and smiling cheerfully. “Morning, Grace. How are you?” 

To her credit, she didn’t look surprised by the sudden intrusion. She just smiled gently and set the class down. “Hello, Trixie. I’m well, and you?” 

“Exhausted,” she replied honestly. “Can I have a coffee? In one of the bigger mugs, preferably.” 

Grace nodded, her eyes flitting back to the shuttered window for a millisecond before she moved back over towards the coffee machine. Trixie watched her out of the corner of her eye as she poured ground coffee beans into the pot, and began brewing her a fresh cup. Now, she was curious about what was going on in the adjoining room, but she couldn’t make out anything from her spot, and she’d have to lean all the way across the bar to catch any of what was being said. 

Good thing she didn’t have to wait for long. Almost as soon as she’d folded her coat over her lap, the door swung open, Tommy materializing and following after a duo of men Trixie had never seen before. Several details of the scene jumped out to her as odd: first, the men were singing, a behavior that had been effectively banned from the Garrison since Tommy had returned; second, they were singing about  _ Ireland _ , unabashedly, in a Birmingham Pub; third, Tommy was regarding them with a level of cheeriness, despite the first two bits. 

“Alright, boys,” he called, “When I know who knows what about what, I’ll let you know.” 

He saw them out, and then turned back to the bar, looking surprised to find Trixie. Something about him seemed poised to run, but it was defeated by pride before he could make use of the instinct. She smiled at him sweetly, and gestured with her brow to the empty barstool at her side. “Have a drink with me, beloved.” 

Tommy cast a wary glance at the packed pub. “I don’t drink at the bar.”

Trixie was undeterred. “But love makes men do crazy things, doesn’t it?” 

Though irritated by her persistence, Tommy didn’t fight it beyond that. He took a seat by her side and cleared his throat, looking as though he wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself. After a moment, he twisted around on the seat, his back to the bar. 

“That’s not how chairs work, you know,” Trixie said. “Or bars, for that matter.” 

“It’s a very stupid king who turns his unguarded back on his subjects,” Tommy replied. 

Trixie scowled. “ _ King _ ...oh bloody please…” she muttered. He cast a sideways glance in her direction, but said nothing. “Have you had a busy week, darling? I haven’t seen you in a while.” 

“You know how it is with work,” he mumbled. “Some weeks are busier than others.” 

“Is that a fact?” Trixie asked, unimpressed. 

“That’s a fact.” 

“Well. I see you’ve been engaging in a bit of retail therapy,” Trixie said, masking her icy words with a warm resonance. “Bought yourself a new pub, and everything.” 

Tommy rolled his head towards her, finally managing to pull his eyes away from the crowd before him and meet her own. “You heard about that, eh?” Trixie nodded. “From who?” 

“Polly, actually. Only found out, though, because I’m being restationed from the parlor to here.” She glanced towards Grace, who was refilling two mugs of beer for a few dock workers at the opposite end of the bar. “Assuming that this will bring me a bit closer to my new friend, over there.” 

He turned back in his chair, sparing Grace a brief once-over, before returning his attention to Trixie. “What’s she like?” 

Oh, Grace. What was she like? Trixie’s first instinct was to say she was a friend, but it was immediately squashed by her better instincts. “Surprisingly kind. If circumstances hadn’t lined up so obviously, I’d assume she was genuine in her affections. But she’s fair company. Nice to talk to someone who isn’t a Shelby, for once.” In an honest sense, she wished that she had met Grace under different circumstances; perhaps they could’ve been friends in a way that counted. 

“Not talking too much, I hope,” Tommy remarked. 

She gritted her teeth. “If that’s your way of asking if I’m betraying you, the answer is still no. I don’t appreciate your lack of faith.” 

“Don’t have faith in much of anything, if that makes you any more appreciative.” 

“It doesn’t.” 

“Fair enough.” 

Grace, as if summoned, appeared across the bar with the coffee. Her hands started shaking when she noticed that Tommy had joined her. “Mr. Shelby,” she said politely. “Can I get you anything?” 

“Whiskey,” he replied, not bothering to look back. 

Trixie wondered what Grace made of the spectacle with Kimber. Surely it would be useful for the Inspector to know that Tommy was making enemies, and surely Grace would’ve put that bit together. Despite how Tommy had conceded to Kimber’s demands, she was as nervous as ever, shuffling away once she’d set down Trixie’s cup. 

“So,” Trixie started, sipping from the coffee mug and biting back a grimace at the piping hot drink. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“Quite brave to assume that you’re the primary motivator for my behavior,” Tommy remarked, his voice gravel. Grace materialized with his drink, setting it down on the bar wordlessly before she busied herself on the other side of the bar. 

Trixie rolled her eyes. “In the year I’ve known you, Tommy, you have managed to cross my path almost daily no matter how hard  _ I  _ tried to avoid  _ you.  _ Now, suddenly, we’re not running into each other for days and that’s just chance?” She snorted. “I wouldn’t put money on those odds.” 

“Figured you wouldn’t want to see me, after the weekend.” 

“Which part of the weekend?” 

With a glare, he reminded her, “My showing up at your apartment.” 

Trixie blinked at him. “Why should I care?” 

“Aren’t you supposed to be a good Catholic girl?” 

“I’m a woman, not a girl, thank you,” she corrected, “and I don’t think God in Heaven will be mad that I let you sleep off your high until you could walk in a straight line. It was the Christly thing to do.” 

This was true—she  _ knew  _ it was true. She was meant to care for those in need, and that night, what Tommy had needed was a place to sleep where nobody was trying to kill him. But it felt like more of a coincidence that she’d run into him like that, in a way that he needed her. Maybe she wouldn’t say it out loud, but part of her had wanted him to stay. Be it temptation, or curiosity, or the power of being in control, something had nagged at her to ask him to stay, and no amount of Christliness could explain it away. 

He seemed to ponder this, reaching for the inevitable cigarette and lighting a match under it. In the meanwhile, Trixie took large swallows of coffee, hoping the caffeine would hit her soon, so she would  _ stop thinking about the weekend _ . “Any chance you were meeting with the two Irishmen for normal, non-nefarious reasons?” 

“Thought your appeal to Polly was your intelligence,” Tommy returned. 

Trixie grabbed his hand, digging her nails into the back of it. “I’m asking because Grace was listening in on it, whatever it was. Don’t insult me.” 

He pulled his hand away, forceful without being abrupt, and grabbed onto his glass. “They’re potential buyers for the guns.” 

“Thought you promised them to Campbell.” 

He shrugged, sipping from the whiskey. “I make a lot of promises to a lot of men. Opportunity’s fallen into our laps, Beatrice. Who am I to adhere to artificial laws of politeness when fate favors me?” 

“You believe in fate, but not in me,” she surmised. “Quite charming, you are.” 

“And yet I’ve convinced you to marry me.” 

Trixie laughed at that, louder than was ladylike, and leaned across the space between them to rest her head on Tommy’s shoulder. “The pleasure’s all yours,” she mumbled, ignoring the way he’d stiffened at her sudden touch. One hand lifted awkwardly around her shoulder, and she turned to stare up at him, smiling sweetly, before straightening to press a kiss against the line of his jaw. “I’ve got things to do, Mr. Shelby. Don’t be a stranger.” 

He said nothing as she stood, but she noticed how he kept his eyes trained on her as she pushed her coat back on over her shoulders, and strolled back out of the Garrison. 

* * *

Contrary to Tommy’s opinion, Trixie was not dumb. She had never misinterpreted Birmingham as a safe city to live in, had never been stupid about walking at night, had never gone to bed without bolting her door shut behind her. But even despite her chronic cautiousness, her careful, measured movements through the city, Trixie found herself cornered by two men rounding the corner of an alley that night. 

Even in the dark, she could tell she was in danger. Trixie yanked her purse back, sending it slamming into the first man’s face, but he was undeterred as he grabbed onto her arm and began dragging her towards a car parked on the side of the road. 

“ _ Help!”  _ Trixie shrieked, digging her heels into the concrete in a futile effort to keep herself in one place. There were people on the sidewalks, people who could  _ hear her.  _ She knew they could, she could see them turning their heads and watching as the two men shoved her into the backseat of the car. Trixie lifted one of her heels, swinging her leg out and kicking one of the men in the shin. 

“Fucking  _ bitch!”  _ he hissed, backhanding her and throwing her down hard into the backseat of the car. “Get the fuck in there and shut the fuck up.” 

His accent was from Birmingham, which provided Trixie with no clarity as to what was going on. Her affiliation with the Shelbys meant that most ordinary men wouldn’t dare touch her. It also, however, meant that much more dangerous people saw a target on her back. Was it the Lees? Kimber? Someone else that Tommy had pissed off? Maybe the Italians knew that Danny Whizzbang’s death had been less than legitimate, maybe they were going to even the score without the Shelbys’ permission, by  _ fucking killing her.  _

Two strong hands suddenly braced themselves on her shoulders, and a handkerchief was placed over her eyes and knotted behind her head. Her hands followed. This was bad. Trixie blindly kicked out her leg again, but didn’t make contact. Another hand slapped her face. 

She was still conscious, but she was dizzy. If they wanted to kill her, they would’ve done so already, probably, or their blows would be close-fisted by now. Whoever they were, they needed her alive. 

The car was humming to life now, the doors slamming and the locks clicking shut. In the backseat, she was crouched over, knees to her chest, for whatever fucking reason, worried about whether or not hunching over like this was going to rip her dress.  _ Just don’t tear the dress.  _ Even as she tried to track the turns, Trixie found herself losing track of where the hell they were going. And what would it matter? She couldn’t very well call Tommy up on a telephone, like,  _ Oh, hello, I’ve just been kidnapped, would you mind coming over here and helping me out? _

She started reciting the Ave Maria to herself, drowning herself in the words to keep from hyperventilating, biting into her cheek to keep from panicking. If she died now, her obituary would list her as the future Mrs. Shelby, and she’d be remembered for  _ that  _ more than anything else. A horrible set of circumstances, and even more reason for her not to get herself killed. 

After what felt like an eternity, or maybe a few seconds, or maybe an hour, the car pulled off and stopped, and Trixie went tumbling forward onto the floor of the backseat. She gritted her teeth. The door opened with a squeak and she was suddenly being dragged out of the car, lifted up into the air, jaw tight as the two men carried her up a series of steps. There came a rush of warmth–they were inside now, they had to be, and the familiar scent of incense. Trixie inhaled carefully. This was a church. It had to be. 

One of the men loosened the knot binding her hands together, and Trixie pulled her blindfold off her eyes. By the time she’d gained her bearings, she was alone in the St. Catherine’s church, and the screech of tires on concrete was radiating from outside as the car drove off. 

Her heart was in her mouth. She wanted to throw up, or cry, or kill someone, or maybe all three? Trixie swallowed and took a cautious step forward, the click of her heel echoing against the dome of the church’s ceiling. All the candles were lit. All the pews were empty. Notably, though, the priest’s corridor in the confessional was shut, and the parishioner door was open. She sat down hesitantly, shutting the door behind her delicately. 

Trixie’s pulse was racing so quickly she felt like her skin was vibrating. None of this felt real—rows upon rows of memorial candles, an abandoned church, the stinging on her face from her assailant’s palm. She should be crying. She didn’t feel  _ okay _ , so she ought to be upset, but she just felt numb, her body a bag of pins and needles. 

“There was a rally at the BSA today.” 

She jumped. Campbell’s familiar voice had drifted through the screen dividing the confessional, clear as day. What had been the point of kidnapping her? She’d always come willingly. “There’s always a rally at the BSA,” Trixie said, her voice coming out quieter than usual. It was as if she was trying not to startle herself. 

“Freddie Thorne led the rally,” Campbell continued. “You see, Miss Price, your presence has been helpful, but the most efficient mode of business is always to go to the source. Eliminate the middleman. That’s why I’ve made a deal with your husband.” 

“You have?” Trixie said. She felt like a ghost hovering above her body, like she was walking through a dream, like if she reached out for the door, her hand might pass right through it. 

It slammed open, and Campbell stormed through, cornering her. She held her breath. “The terms of our deal stipulate that Thomas Shelby was to run Freddie Thorne and the other communist  _ scum  _ out of this town, or else I’ll do it my way, and I won’t be half as kind about it. And since he’s failed, I’m going to ask you now. Where is Freddie Thorne?” 

“I don’t know,” Trixie said, shaking her head adamantly. For once, she wasn’t even lying to him. “I don’t know, I thought he left.” 

“He came back,” Campbell informed her, seizing her jaw in his hand and tightening his grip. “Decided to get married while he was here.” 

“He got married?” Trixie asked. Ada hadn’t told her. She’d assumed she would know if a wedding were to take place, even if it was hurried and only for the sake of social dignity. “I didn’t know.” 

“I thought you were close with Ada,” Campbell asked. “Isn’t that what you said?” 

“I am,” Trixie swore. “I am. Please don’t touch me.” 

He tilted his head the slightest bit, a leer creeping across his lips. Campbell let go, but not before patting the side of her cheek affectionately. “Where is Freddie Thorne right now?” he asked calmly, taking a step back. Trixie blinked at him, trying to understand the question. 

“I don’t—I don’t know. I didn’t even know he got married.” 

“Don’t play dumb,” he hissed. 

“I’m  _ not!”  _ Trixie insisted. “I don’t know where he is.” 

Campbell leaned down over her until their faces were inches apart, his breath hot on her cheek. “You better find out then, eh? Or I’ll leave you to rot with the rest of the city’s scum.” 

Trixie nodded, not knowing what else to do. Over the thrum of her heart, she could barely understand what he was saying, his voice mere background noise. 

Satisfied, he stepped back, pulling his pipe from his pocket. “Oh, and Miss Price?” Campbell struck a match and lit the bowl of his pipe, the smoke suddenly overpowering the incense. “You tell Mr. Shelby that if he breaks a deal with me again, I won’t be so gentle with my treatment of you. Understood?” 

Staring down at her hands, at the ring on her finger, Trixie nodded again. Nothing about the night made any sense. Whatever part of her brain that was usually employed in adding up numbers and putting equations together had gone numb. There was just this: Campbell, threatening to kill her. The chair digging into her back. The throbbing pain in the back of her head. The promise she had to make to get out of here alive. 

So she swallowed, curling her hands into fists, and blinked at Campbell slowly. “Yes, sir,” said Trixie, trying to smother the sob threatening to break free in the back of her throat. “Yes, sir. I understand.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: enjoy another longer chapter to make up for the delay! I’m sorry again about this coming late—I’m in the process of moving back to my college and there’s a lot to organize before I have access to a proper workspace and time for writing. My birthday is also coming up this Saturday, so I’m not sure if I’ll be able to get a Sunday update up this week, but if not, I’ll do my best to return to the twice-a-week schedule as soon as I can. Thank you all for your patience!
> 
> Thank you to dirtygoldensoul, J, JMBH, 15marba, archeronwings, alreadyafan, ferallahey, and Shareece for the comments last chapter! Please let me know what you thought of this chapter as well :) 
> 
> **Chapter 13** / _Match in the Gunpowder_
> 
> “Were you sleeping?” Trixie asked, as if she hadn’t just burst into his bedroom at one in the morning, as if he wasn’t fumbling for the lamp at this very second, as if he didn’t look painfully boyish in his nightshirt. 
> 
> Tommy glowered at her, and some of the youthfulness broke off in pieces. “No, but I was trying.” 


	14. Match in the Gunpowder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listen to this chapter’s soundtrack [here.](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2Xo2z4WyJRvwEGfTYbKWrQ?si=8xwBC-DkS3ehsWCWGQyxKA)

_ “ _ _ Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.” — _ Matthew 11:28

Trixie’s brain was on autopilot as she clambered out of the St. Catherine’s confessional, her body light and unreal. It wasn’t until she was raising her hand to knock that she realized she’d arrived at the Shelby residence, the familiar horseshoe over the door staring back at her as it curved over the spyhole in the door. 

What was she doing? It was past midnight by now. Trixie blinked herself awake, turning over her shoulder and finding that Birmingham was dark and miserable as usual. Above, the sky was lightened by the smoke hanging over the city. Still grey. Always grey. 

She needed to talk to Tommy. Or  _ somebody _ . She just didn’t—she didn’t want to be alone if she could help it. Trixie dug into her purse for the keychain, finding the door to the Shelby house, and turning the door open. Polly had given her the key to the betting shop early on, since she’d be opening and closing regularly, but Trixie had only received the house key last year. She’d never needed to use it before. If she knocked, they would probably answer, but she didn’t have it in her arms to knock with the amount of force that would be necessary to pull the Shelbys out of sleep, or their drunken stupor. 

Inside the house, Trixie found the fire in the living room had been put out. She knew where each of their bedrooms were, just from wandering the house when it had been deserted by the boys for the war. Tommy slept on the top floor, his room small. She’d passed by it once, while fetching papers for Polly during the war, but it had been mostly desolate, and by the time he’d returned, she’d been happy to push the memory from her mind. 

Trixie knew this house, she realized. Without even noticing, she’d begun dodging the stairs that creaked, the parts of the railing that had given her splinters. She was on the top floor before she even knew what she was doing, her hand on the knob, twisting and pushing the door open. 

On the other side, Tommy had a gun cocked in her direction. Trixie’s breath hitched. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” he asked, lowering the revolver and setting it on the mattress beside him. 

An insult was on her tongue before she could help it. “So you’re allowed to show up at my apartment unannounced, but I can’t return the favor?” He stiffened. “ Were you sleeping?” Trixie asked, as if she hadn’t just burst into his bedroom at one in the morning, as if he wasn’t reaching for the lamp at this very second, as if he didn’t look painfully boyish in his nightshirt. 

Tommy glowered at her, and some of the youthfulness broke off in pieces. “No, but I was trying.” 

“Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t—know where to go.” 

“Your own apartment, perhaps?” he suggested. “Really, anywhere but here.” 

Trixie cast a sideways glance, finding a chair set next to a small table with a book atop it. She sat down in the chair and peered over at the book.  _The Prince._ “I don’t want to be alone right now. And I thought you didn’t sleep.” 

He pointed lazily at the pipe on his bedside table. The room looked the same as she remembered, sort of. What had once been sunny was darkened by drawn curtains and nightfall; what had been an empty shelf was now filled in books; what had been a neatly made bed was now occupied by the self-proclaimed King of Birmingham, looking exhausted and confused and strangely unkempt. “Surely you can find better company.” 

Trixie fidgeted with the ring, twirling it around her finger. She should tell him what happened, probably. But the words had deserted her tongue, and her mouth was dry.  _ I won’t be so gentle.  _ Should she be mad at him for what happened? Should she be mad at herself? Trixie swallowed. 

“Beatrice?” Tommy asked, sounding almost concerned, but mostly irritated. She opened her mouth to speak, but choked on a lump in her throat, clicking her jaw shut definitively. Crying in front of Tommy Shelby was too pathetic. Campbell may have attacked her, and threatened her, and she might have been one misstep away in every direction from getting killed, but she was not going to  _ cry.  _ “Why are you here?” 

Forcing herself to meet his gaze, Trixie panicked and plastered a smile across her face. It made it easier to say, “Church.” 

Tommy blinked at her. “What?” 

“Campbell,” Trixie said, rolling her neck nervously. “Er—he wants me to deliver a message.” 

“And what’s that?” 

“If you break a deal with him again, he won’t be so gentle with his treatment of me,” Trixie recited. 

Even with the light glowing beside him, Tommy darkened. “Come here.” 

She gritted her teeth, spite kicking in a split-second before logic. “I’m alright where I am.” 

“Beatrice,” he said, cold as ever. “Come here, now.” 

Trixie rolled her eyes and stood, crossing the room and stopping in front of him, her knees almost bumping into his. Folding her arms over her chest, she cocked one eyebrow. “What.” 

Tommy lifted the lamp from the table and held it up to her face, where the bruising from the blows was beginning to throb. He stood from the bed, and Trixie, not realizing until it was too late, forgot to back away. They were nearly chest to chest now, the lamplight an unpleasant blare that only worsened her headache. “What did they do to you?” 

She shrugged. “Two men cornered me, threw me in a car, tied me up.” Trixie stared very pointedly at a flower on the wallpaper just over his shoulder. “Took me to Church. Campbell said you promised to run Freddie Thorne out of town, but he’s still here, and now he’s married to Ada. And he’s staying.” 

He stared at her for a long moment, before reaching for her chin and grabbing it with a surprising degree of tenderness. Gently, he pulled her jaw back until she was looking straight at him. “Beatrice.” 

“Nobody calls me Beatrice,” she reminded him. 

“ _ Beatrice.”  _

She shut up. 

Tommy stretched his thumb up to the swell of her cheekbone, pressing down on it firmly. “Does this hurt?” he asked. She shook her head. “It’s not fractured, then. Are you bleeding anywhere?” 

“Not bleeding.” She shifted, stepping back, and Tommy’s hand dropped back to his side. “Why did he come after me?” 

He raked a hand through his hair. “I break my side of the deal, he breaks his.” 

“What was his side of the deal?” 

“He was supposed to leave you alone. He promised me he’d leave you alone.” 

Trixie rolled her eyes. Of course he’d offered her up as some sort of cheap collateral. If he failed, she would hardly be the worst thing the Shelbys could lose. “And you didn’t think to  _ mention this?”  _

“Didn’t think it’d come up.” His jaw tightened. “I thought I’d be able to get Freddie out of town by now.” 

“Well, it  _ came up,”  _ Trixie noted, pointing at her face. “We talked about Ada and Freddie—on—on  _ three  _ separate occasions last week and you never bothered to mention that it was my safety for his exile?” 

“Look, I’m sorry,” he said, sounding like he wasn’t very sorry at all. 

“I know you don’t really care if I die,” Trixie interrupted, veering away from him and pacing across the room, “but  _ I  _ would like to stay alive, if that’s alright with you.” She reached up for her face, as if checking to see if the bruise had healed since Tommy had prodded at it. It was still tender. 

He stepped forward, poised to disagree, but instead of trying to argue with it, he said, “Fine. What do you need?” 

“I want a gun,” Trixie said. Once, long ago, she’d promised her father that she would never arm herself, but that had been before a fucking cop had cornered her in a Church confessional to punish her for the sins of her gangster fake-husband. Times had changed, and so had she. It’s what needed to happen in order for her to survive. “I want another lock installed on my door. I want someone to walk me home at night.” 

“Do you want Arthur to teach you to fight, as well?” he drawled, words dripping with sarcasm. 

Trixie blinked at him, and chose to take it literally. “I could have very capable fists, Tommy, but those fists couldn’t stop a bullet.” 

He shrugged. “Fair enough. We’ll get you a gun, then, and I’ll have some of the boys put another lock on your door.” 

“And someone to walk me home,” she reminded him. 

“And someone to walk you home,” he agreed. “You want a cigarette?” 

Trixie looked down at her hands and found that she’d been fiddling with the ring again. Sitting down on the bed carefully, she admitted, “Yes. Cigarette would be nice.” He struck a match and handed her a cigarette, placing it gently between her lips before lighting it. Almost immediately, her nerves were soothed. Her face still ached, but now Tommy was reaching for her again, a hand on her jaw to inspect her bruises. His fingers were ice cold, almost comforting, for once. “When did you learn to shoot?” Trixie asked. “The war?” 

He raised an eyebrow, but then sat down beside her, close enough that his knee bumped into hers. “Before. Polly taught me.” 

“Polly….” Trixie mused. “Who taught Polly?” 

“Her husband,” Tommy replied. “My uncle.” 

She’d known about him, but not much beyond the fact that he had once existed and was now dead. The two of them were alone—Polly a wife and a mother with no husband or children, Trixie a daughter with no parents. Perhaps that was why they got on so well. “Would she teach me, do you think?” 

Tommy blinked at her, slowly, like he didn’t understand the question. “You don’t know how to shoot?” 

Defensive, Trixie retorted, “ _ When  _ would I have picked up on that skill? My lunch break? Sundays after mass?” 

He rolled his eyes. “Everyone that goes into this house knows how to shoot. Ada. Even Finn. I assumed Polly would’ve vetted you.” 

“I had reservations on violence when Polly first recruited me,” Trixie said. 

“And now?” Tommy prompted. 

“Now I’ll do what I have to to stay alive.” 

He sighed, scratching at the side of his jaw. 

“What am I going to do about Campbell?” Trixie asked. Not  _ what are  _ **_you_ ** _ going to do  _ or  _ what are  _ **_we_ ** _ going to do.  _ Her, and her alone, since she clearly couldn’t trust him not to barter with her safety. “Are we still engaged?” 

Tommy considered, and then nodded. “Yes.” She should’ve been annoyed, but Trixie was almost...glad. The idea that she’d go back to being blissfully unaware of his plans while he’d move on caused some vile, fearsome thing to latch its tentacles around her heart and squeeze. “We’ll get out of town on Saturday for the races. My plans for the Lees will begin moving forward, and soon you’ll have nothing to fear.” 

She actually laughed at that, harder than she’d laughed in a long time. “ _ Nothing to fear!”  _ she repeated, incredulous. The way he tilted his head was indication enough that he wouldn’t correct himself, but he also wouldn’t disagree with her. “You mind telling me where Freddie Thorne is?” Trixie asked. 

“Wouldn’t mind at all, except I’ve no fucking clue,” Tommy replied. “I’d ask Ada, but—” 

“But she’s with him,” Trixie finished. “You know, I thought I’d at least be invited to the wedding.” 

“It was all ritual.” 

“Well,” Trixie interjected, her voice pitching up a bit. “They loved each other. It wasn’t  _ all  _ ritual.” It was rare in Birmingham to meet couples who truly did care for each other, but Ada and Freddie were undeniably that. She and Luca had been that.  _ Beatrice DeSilvio.  _ She’d practiced saying it in the mirror when he’d first gone away, thinking foolishly that he’d be back soon enough. How wrong she’d been. “Though, he’s probably with other Communists, yeah?” She shrugged. “If someone were to find out where they were...two birds, one stone.” Get the inspector off their backs and get Freddie out of town so he and Ada could settle somewhere nice. 

Tommy shrugged, exhaling smoke. “Starting to see why Polly keeps you around.” 

The throwaway compliment sent her gaze flying towards him, lips parted in surprise. “Seriously?” 

He turned to her, nonchalant as anything. “What,” he said dryly, taking the shape of a question without filling it. 

Pleased with herself, Trixie let out one, sharp laugh. “You make no sense.” 

“I make plenty of sense.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” she dismissed with a wave of her hand, pretending that his gun wasn’t within his reach on the bureau. “You make sense to people who see you as the King of Birmingham, or whatever it is you’re calling yourself, and you make sense to the mothers to yank their children across the street when they see you coming. But  _ I see you,  _ Tommy.” 

His jaw moved a bit, nothing more than a stretch, but the movement parted his lips. In the lamplight, she saw the statue from the museum back again, hollow, erotic, shameless, open. She wondered—if she leaned forward, would his lips be cold as the marble of the sculpture? Would he come to life, moving against her, or would he be frigid as always? 

The idea was so surprising, and so painfully absurd, that it spun Trixie into a fit of laughter that Tommy met with obvious confusion. If she kissed him, he might throttle her for real, or perhaps exile her from the family—not to mention the fact that  _ she didn’t like him.  _ Trixie ran through a list of his crimes in her head, like a judge sentencing him to death. He’d bargained with her life, stuck her with James, insulted her repeatedly, barged into her house—well. Alright, perhaps they were even on that front. But  _ still _ —she shouldn’t want to kiss him. She just wanted to understand, and usually, that sort of thing entailed getting closer. “Grace thinks we haven’t had sex,” she blurted out, before registering what the  _ fuck  _ she was saying. 

Tommy blinked, like he was waking up even more, and furrowed his brow. “Appropriate, since we haven’t.” 

“I meant—” What had she meant? Good God. “I meant that  _ she  _ might be why the Inspector is onto this whole fabricated engagement.” 

“Did you tell her we’re Catholic?” Tommy asked. 

With a glare, Trixie retorted, “Oh, right—you and God have worked out the details so He’s blessed your criminal empire, but sexual immorality is where you draw the line.” 

Tommy blinked at her. “Why was this even a topic of discussion, can I ask?” 

“Well  _ I  _ didn’t bring it up,” Trixie snapped. “Grace was talking about her...history...and then she asked about  _ mine  _ and I told her there was none, because I never thought that my being a—” She flushed, faltering, the word heavy on her lips. Composing herself, she finished, “I didn’t think it would come up.” 

Nothing on his face changed noticeably—maybe he’d figured that this was the case, or maybe he just didn’t care. Either way, it was better than the alternative. Ada knew, and had brushed past it, but if it came up with any of the other Shelbys, surely Trixie would be made a laughingstock. “I’ll deal with Campbell,” Tommy said. “He won’t touch you again.” 

Trixie sighed. She’d gotten what she wanted, she supposed, though she hadn’t really come here with a specific agenda. The city was darker now, more dangerous, and she had no desire to go all the way across town now, while Tommy was picking fights with everyone in sight and putting a target on her back. She wondered if he would let her stay. 

“Can I stay here?” she asked, before she could talk herself out of it. “I don’t want to walk back, and I assume  _ you  _ don’t want to walk me back, so—” 

“Fine,” he said, ashing his cigarette with such distinct Tommy Shelby precision. “You need anything to sleep?” 

She shook her head. One night in her makeup wouldn’t kill her. Trixie leaned down and unbuckled the straps of her pumps, leaving her stockings on as she drew her legs up to her chest. His bed was smaller than hers, but she would make do, pushing her body back towards the wall. Yes, it was stupid to allow Tommy’s body to box her into a corner, but it felt safer than the alternative. It wasn’t Tommy she ought to fear, tonight, but the world beyond him. 

“Done with that?” Tommy asked, gesturing to her cigarette. 

Trixie hesitated, and then nodded, handing it over to him. He ashed the half-burned stub in the tray, and then pulled his own legs back under the sheets. Should she put her legs under the blanket as well? Logically, yes—she’d freeze if she didn’t, but Trixie felt as if she needed an invitation. Tommy didn’t offer one. She’d have to take it for herself. 

Gently, she slid her legs under the blanket, accidentally running her foot into his knee. “You mind?” he asked, voice gravel. 

“I can’t see through the damn thing,” she returned, irritation edging into her voice to cover up her panic. Somehow, this was worse than Tommy sleeping off the high in her bed. They were both sober—or sober enough. It was on his terms. And also—while her bed was big enough for Luca and her to share, this one was undeniably built for one person. “Your bed is small,” she remarked, just to be cruel. Even both of them lying on their backs, they were shoulder-to-shoulder. 

“It’s not meant to be shared,” he replied, sounding bored. Or perhaps just tired. “I’ll get a bigger one for the wedding so we can consummate the marriage.” 

Trixie’s hand was up and smacking him on the shoulder before she could reason with herself over the movement. She didn’t regret it—he was clearly nonplussed, steepling his hands behind his head and staring up at the ceiling. With a huff, she turned back over, turning back towards the wall. A few seconds later, Tommy switched the light off, drowning them in darkness. 

She wasn’t going to sleep anytime soon—neither was he, likely. In the pitch-black, her thoughts began drifting towards the next morning. What if she ran into Grace on her way out? What if she had to explain the purpose of her overnight visit, her disheveled appearance? 

Maybe she ought to tell her that they had... _ consummated.  _ Strategically, it was the right move: where there was a perceived weakness, Trixie would have to make repairs. And what if Grace asked for details? Her mind was hovering on that odd edge between wake and sleep, where the creaking floorboards could still jolt her conscious but the knowledge that Tommy lay beside her had begun to slip away. Grace had shared details—that her first had been clumsy, hadn’t known where to put his hands, had….completed after only a few minutes. Tommy had to be better—he had to know better, at least. 

If Grace asked for details, Trixie would tell her that Tommy had kissed her, but—well, it would be nothing like Luca, who’d always been so gentle and chaste. Tommy, covetous man that he was, would be bruising in his affections—hypothetically. A hand on her waist, the other on the back of her neck as he slanted his mouth across hers, wanting. If Grace asked for details, Trixie could mention how he’d pressed her back into the bed and dotted his mouth along her neck, heavy, open-mouthed kisses falling over her as he unbuttoned her dress, and she fumbled for his shirt. Then—both of them—open. His chest to hers, his hands startling and cold as he pulled her stockings from her legs, undid the buckle of his belt, moved his mouth from her neck to her collarbone to her breast, one hand sliding up her hip. Trixie might moan in this story, might gasp his name as he teased her.  _ It was like heaven,  _ she’d say, as she recalled Tommy’s fingers buried between her legs. 

But those details were all prologue, Trixie reasoned, in a story about the act itself, how it felt to have him inside her, how he might have caressed her waist with gentleness and care as he thrust into her roughly—or maybe not. Maybe he’d be gentle with her. That was a better story, wasn’t it? Maybe she’d keep the draft where Tommy bit her lip hard enough to bruise locked in the cupboards of her mind, where it belonged to her and her alone. Grace could have the version of the story where Tommy was a perfect gentleman, talented, where she’d breathed his name and he kissed her as she trembled, another line of fate running parallel to this one. And what about later on? Would it be too difficult to believe that Tommy might hold her in the aftermath? Trixie considered the details as she drifted to sleep.

* * *

Trixie’s first thought the next morning was a simple and concise,  _ Oh, fuck.  _

Somewhere downstairs, a dish had been dropped, and the crash jolted her from sleep, sending Trixie crash-landing back into Tommy’s now-empty bedroom. He was late to bed and early to rise, or maybe just avoiding her. Trixie sat up in bed, and with the rush of blood to her head, remembered the  _ story  _ she’d been authoring last night. “Oh, Christ,” she mumbled, burying her face in her hands to hide her blush from the nonexistent audience. What was  _ wrong  _ with her? She’d never—she’d  _ never  _ thought about those things….or at least, not on  _ purpose.  _ And absolutely  _ never  _ about Tommy! 

Throwing the covers off her body, Trixie slid out of bed, trying to keep her steps light. Her shoes had been placed neatly by her purse, still on Tommy’s arm-chair. She hurried over to them, but not before catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her eyeliner had been smudged horribly, though her blush was not too apparent. It was decent enough to get her across town without questions, so long as she kept her head down. 

What had she been  _ thinking  _ last night? The nightmares about Luca in the plane had been put on hold for one night, finally, but only because Trixie had been lusting after  _ Tommy fucking Shelby.  _

As if summoned, the bedroom door opened. Tommy was dressed impeccably, his three-piece pressed neatly as per usual. In her wrinkled dress, she felt almost ashamed. 

“Morning,” he greeted nonchalantly, closing the door behind him. “Sleep well?” 

“What time is it?” 

“Nine.” 

“ _ Nine?”  _ Trixie hissed. “But—” she sputtered. “I’m supposed to be  _ here  _ at nine.” 

“Convenient that you are,” he said, gesturing vaguely at her physical presence. 

She glowered at him, but making eye contact only brought back the memories of her late-night machinations. Tommy’s lips— _ everywhere.  _ She turned away with the suddenness of a snapped neck. “I have to go home and change.” 

“Polly knows you’re late to work. S’alright, Beatrice.” 

“It is  _ not alright,”  _ she disagreed adamantly, yanking her coat on frantically. “I am not going to walk downstairs and have your family think I  _ slept with you!”  _ she hissed, struggling to keep her voice a whisper.  _ But you wanted to,  _ her brain immediately supplied.  _ Shut up, shut up, shut up.  _

“How else are you planning on getting out?” Tommy asked, raising an eyebrow. 

Trixie cast a glance out at the only other exit of the room. The window. 

Tommy was a smart enough man that he did not have a fire escape leading directly to his window, on account of all the men who wanted to kill him. But when Trixie pulled the window open, she found that he did have a ladder that tracked down the side of the Shelby house, currently tucked under itself so as to be inaccessible from the street. “I’ll take this,” she replied, pursing her lips and putting her hat on her head with confidence that didn’t exactly match how she felt inside. 

“Don’t be absurd,” Tommy said. 

“I’m perfectly happy being absurd,” Trixie replied. She reached over for the latch on the ladder, shuffling out of the window and gripping onto it, carried by the pure need to  _ get out of there  _ before Polly thought that she thought of Tommy as anything but her infuriating boss. 

The alley below was deserted, but Trixie still made a considerably large deal about pressing her skirt down so nobody could stare up at her. The ladder stopped a foot short of the ground and she stepped off, glancing up at Tommy, flashing again to the scenario she’d dreamed up of them, before turning towards home. But not before she made a stop at church. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi hello I am back! So sorry for the delay and the short chapter but hopefully I can go back to twice-weekly updates starting this Sunday, and it should be a long chapter. I hope you are all doing well and that you enjoyed this chapter—Trixie and Tommy keep having sleepovers and being kind of stupid with each other but that's just their deal, at this point. This chapter was definitely more character-driven than plot-driven, but I hope you enjoyed it nonetheless. Please let me know what you thought!
> 
> Thank you to trixareforeveryone, eiman, Shareece, dirtygoldensoul, ferallahey, 15marba, lmenin, Hannnnnnnnnnnnnnnah, macademilk, archeronwings, J, bkazza, JMBH, and Corujinhamestre for the comments last chapter! You guys are ?? Amazing? I am so grateful to you all and I will see you next chapter!
> 
>  **Chapter 14** / _Off to the Races_
> 
> “May I ask your companion for a dance?” Kimber said to Tommy. Then, he leaned over and whispered loudly enough for Trixie to hear, “If you give me a shot with her, I’ll give you a shot with mine.” 
> 
> Tommy’s gaze slid over to Trixie, where he was met with a scowl. “Of course, Mr. Kimber. You’re welcome to ask her.” 
> 
> Kimber extended his hand towards Trixie. “Miss Price, may I have this dance?” 
> 
> She blinked at him once, slowly, before leaning back in her chair. “No.”


	15. Off to the Races

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listen to this chapter’s soundtrack [here.](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4O9SFkloNcDDhmMuV1VxiM?si=ZUAZ5RuHQaepjAk30cdzNw)

_ “ _ _ For the love of money is a root of all kinds of evils. It is through this craving that some have wandered away from the faith and pierced themselves with many pangs.”  _ -1 Timothy 6:10

Trixie had made a very profound effort to avoid Tommy since crash-landing in his apartment the Wednesday previous, but the weekend came soon enough and the races with it. She’d had no idea what she was supposed to wear to something like this, so she’d settled for the silver dress she’d purchased a few years back for her and Luca’s engagement dinner. It was the nicest thing Trixie owned, and it seemed fair to assume that overdressing would be preferable to the alternative in this case. 

She spent some time fussing in the mirror over her makeup, before resigning herself to the usual charcoal-lined eyes and maroon lip. Tommy’s knocking found her halfway done with a slice of toast and hurrying to brush the crumbs from her skirt. Outside, he waited in an unfortunately flattering gray suit. Trixie’s heart stuttered in her chest, and she wondered if, somehow, Tommy had  _ known  _ how she’d imagined him those nights earlier. Strong, and real, and—

“Are you going to invite me in?” 

Trixie blinked at him. “What?” 

Tommy raised an eyebrow. “Are you going to invite me in? Or should I wait out here?” 

“Right,” she said, shaking her head. “Yes, sorry. Come in.” 

He stepped through the doorway, surveying her apartment as if seeing it for the first time. “Nice dress,” he said, voice as flat as ever. “I brought you something.” 

Tommy pulled the newspaper out from under his arm and offered it to Trixie. In her hands, it was inexplicably heavy—she unfolded the pages and found a pistol inside, cold to the touch. “How romantic,” she remarked, running her thumb carefully along the barrel of the gun. 

“You asked,” he reminded her. 

“Right,” said Trixie. “I know.” 

“So…” 

“I got it,” she muttered, picking up the gun and taking it to the table beside her bed. “How far is Cheltenham?” 

Tommy already had a cigarette out, rubbing it against his bottom lip. “An hour, maybe.” Then, after a moment of consideration, he added, “An hour if you’re keen on following the traffic laws.” 

“I take it you aren’t?” Trixie surmised. 

“Are you?” he returned. 

“Never driven before,” she replied. “Wouldn’t even know what the laws are.” 

He smirked, and life sprung back into his body. “C’mon, then,” he said, tugging on the sleeve of his jacket. “I’ll show you.” 

“How to drive?” she asked, but he was already pulling the door open and heading outside. Trixie grabbed her purse and hurried after him, careful to keep her balance as she chased him down the steps. Tommy’s car, a Bugatti, was waiting for them—far fancier than the car she’d been shoved into by Campbell’s men. He pulled the door open for her. 

“My love,” he said, keeping his eyes fixated on some point above her head. 

“Dearest,” she returned, stepping into it carefully and smoothing her skirt down. Tommy shut the door firmly behind her and crossed the car, sitting down in the passenger seat. “When did you learn to drive?” she asked. 

“The war,” he replied. “Running supplies out, before I got moved into the trenches.” 

“You were a digger?” Trixie asked. 

He nodded. “Won a medal for it, and everything.” Tommy started the car, the engine rumbling loud beneath them, and pulled it out onto the street. Trixie grabbed onto the handle of the door to steady herself, trying not to be too surprised by the motion. It was certainly more unsteady than the train had been with Grace, Tommy starting and stopping as pedestrians ran out into the street ahead of him, but he wasn’t a bad driver—well. She didn’t have any real point of comparison, but he seemed to be operating it safely enough. “And what about your…” He trailed off, one hand crossing the other as he made a turn. “Your fiance.”

“Luca?” Trixie asked. “He was a pilot.” 

“Impressive,” said Tommy. 

Trixie shrugged. “He was good with mechanics. That sort of thing. I think it just came naturally to him.” 

“He ever drive a car?” Tommy asked. 

She turned to look at him, grateful for the sudden inequity. Tommy had his eyes on the road, and she could look at him freely without him turning back to face her. “No,” she replied. “No, we were poor, the both of us. Couldn’t afford anything like that.” He didn’t offer a reply, so Trixie asked, “What’s the plan?” 

Clearing his throat, Tommy said, “I’ve started a war with the Lees that will eventually turn in my favor.” 

“You started a war that’s going to turn in your favor?” Trixie replied dubiously. 

“The Lees are taking money from the tracks, Kimber’s bookies are on the look-away. He needs to think we have a common enemy that I’ll help deal with. And I will, eventually—by offering a truce with the Lees.” 

“And how sure are you that this is going to work?” Trixie asked, squinting at him. 

Tommy turned back to her, a wicked glint in his eyes that sent heat pooling in her stomach and her mind straight back to the night they’d spent together, and the thoughts she’d wrestled with on the edge of sleep.  _ Both of them—open. His chest to hers, his hands startling and cold as he pulled her stockings from her legs, undid the buckle of his belt, moved his mouth from her neck to her collarbone to her breast, one hand sliding up her hip.  _ As hard as she’d tried to keep the memories from cropping back up, Trixie had gone back to them every night since when her head hit the pillow. They made her feel strangely pleasant, flushed in a way she’d not yet managed to cope with. 

“Am I to take that as an answer?” she asked, praying that her voice would not betray her thoughts. It wasn’t entirely successful—her words came out rather strangled. 

“You’re to take that as whatever you want,” Tommy replied cryptically, turning the car onto the highway out of town and sending them flying down the road. Trixie wanted to look back—she wanted to see what she was leaving behind, but she forced her eyes to stay ahead, towards all that lay waiting before them. 

* * *

Cheltenham was hardly what Trixie had expected. For the whole time she’d been working for the Shelbys, she’d imagined a dirt road and risers of spectators. This, thought—this was much more of an ordeal than that. Tracks, yes, located in what could best be described as an arena. And that wasn’t even where Tommy was headed. As soon as he had offered his hand for her to step out of the car, he’d slung a firm hand around her waist and pulled her towards a side-entrance. 

“What—Tommy.” 

“We’re not the kind of guests they invite through,” he mumbled. “This way.” Pulling the door open, Tommy led Trixie into a crowded corridor, where bookies and jockeys bustled around and caterers pressed through gaps in the buzz. “Tracks are lawless places, you know,” Tommy informed her. “And I can’t stand petty criminals.” 

Trixie snorted. “Right.”

He paused to look at her, like he didn’t get the joke, but then focused back on getting them through the maze of hallways. “This way,” he said, and Trixie made a sharp right—just barely missing the corner of a desk. “And now this way,” he continued, tugging her waist to the left. Tommy directed them forward towards a red door, and she considered asking how, exactly, he knew all this, but she refrained. “Alright,” Tommy said. “Follow my lead, eh?” 

“Is that not what I’ve been doing?” Trixie deadpanned in reply. “Following your lead?” 

“Clever,” he remarked flatly. When he pushed the door open, they seemed to pass into an entirely different world. Gone were the wrinkled vests and rolled-up shirtsleeves. Here, every woman was dressed to the nines in the latest trendy dresses, and the men were all at Tommy’s caliber—sharp, neat, three-pieces. Given this, he should’ve blended in more, but he was still so striking. Trixie grabbed onto his arm, pulling him out of the way of an older woman in a ridiculous feathered hat. 

“You know, this is hardly what I expected,” Trixie commented. 

Tommy laughed—genuinely laughed—and flattened his hand against the small of her back. “We’re just getting started, Beatrice. Come on.” He led them towards security, two men in suits, and offered a disarming smile. “Hello, gentlemen. My wife here got lost on the way to go check on our horse. Mind if we get through?” 

“You have your tickets?” one of the men asked, cocking an eyebrow at Trixie. 

Tommy turned to look at her expectantly, and she tried to match his smile. “I’m so sorry, sir,” she said. “I left them at the table. I really was only planning to be gone for a minute. We’ve got a new jockey, last one’s grandmother passed away tragically—oh, what is it? A month ago?” She looked at Tommy, who was now regarding her dubiously. She pressed on. If she spun the story long enough, perhaps they’d give up and let her through. “Well, this new boy’s great, but he’s not as experienced, y’know, with the, um...the public races. And, er—well, I thought I might talk to him, try to calm his nerves, but—”

“Alright,” the second security guard interrupted, holding out a hand. “Just don’t forget your ticket next time.” 

“Yes, sir, thank you,” Trixie said with a smile, stepping between them and towards the...dance floor? She’d expected a lobby akin to a movie theater, but this was perhaps more like a ballroom, three women singing along to a Charleston onstage while swathes of wealthy gamblers danced below, ladies’ skirts fanning out in bright circles, looking like pinwheels from where they stood on the balcony. The room was stunning—decorated lavishly with flowers and streamers. Perhaps Trixie could’ve brought herself to appreciate it, had she not been so irritated with him. “What happened to you leading?” she accused, swinging around to face Tommy. “Left me to explain myself when I don’t even fully understand what your plan is.” 

“You did good,” Tommy commended. 

She’d already prepared a retort, but it died on her tongue. “What?” 

“Nice job,” he rephrased, nodding in acknowledgement. “You dance?” 

“Wha— _ no,  _ I do not dance.” 

He sighed. “My plan relies on you dancing.” 

“So it’s not foolproof after all,” Trixie said, just to be annoying. 

He raised an eyebrow and held out his hand. “Beatrice Price, will you please dance with me?” 

She stared down at his hand for a minute, before reluctantly accepting it with her own. “Fine,” she conceded. Tommy nodded, pleased, and led her down the stairs to the dancefloor. Trixie wasn’t sure what she was doing with herself, but suddenly, Tommy’s hand was on the back of her waist, and his other had interlaced his fingers with her own, an act that suddenly felt profoundly intimate. Deliberately so. He was close to her now—closer than they’d been in bed, chest to chest for real, and if Trixie wasn’t so focused on avoiding stumbling, maybe she would’ve noticed the way her heart raced as he planted his palm firmly against her skin. “I don’t know how to dance,” she warned. 

“I noticed,” Tommy responded, not bothering to disguise his low expectations. She rolled her eyes. “Look—just follow what I’m doing.” 

He took a step forward, and she took one back, her eyes decidedly focused on his movement as he piloted them towards the center of the floor. It was easier like this, staring down at their shoes, at the sway of her silver skirt. Certainly, it was better than thinking about his hand through the thin fabric of her dress, and how badly she’d ached for his touch nights ago, and—

“ _ Bloody Christ,”  _ Tommy hissed. She’d stepped on his foot. “You mind, eh?”

“Sorry,” she said, before she could consider responding with anything else. “Are you alright?” 

His eyebrows lifted, surprised, maybe. “I’m alright, just—can you keep it together until I get us to Kimber’s table?” 

“No promises,” she warned, but paid extra attention to moving her feet in pattern with his, three long steps back before he stopped and began leading them into an actual back-and-forth step pattern. 

“Ready?” he asked. 

“For what?” she answered. 

The pitch of the trumpets dipped, and Tommy stepped back, twirling her in a circle, before pulling her firmly back to his chest. Her breath stuttered, her body shaking from the force of her ever-quickening pulse, as Tommy leaned back and resumed the steps of their dance. Trixie struggled to regain her footing, her hand grabbing for his shoulder, ignoring the amused smile gracing his lips. 

“Do  _ you  _ mind?” she asked. “Where’d you even learn how to dance?” she asked him, exasperated. “And if you say the war, I swear—” 

“Taught us in school,” Tommy replied. “I wasn’t there for long, but in primary school, fifth year, they made us learn. Becomes a hard thing to forget.” 

“Does it come up often?” she asked dryly. 

“Oh,  _ believe me,”  _ he mocked. “Not nearly as often as I’d like.” He cleared his throat. “Surprised you didn’t learn in school as well.” 

“I never went to school,” she replied. “Learned to read with my father, and learned maths thanks to Luca’s family. Just wasn’t a priority to get someone like me into a classroom, I suppose.” 

“You read for fun,” he said. Almost a question, but not quite. “You, must, eh? If you’re going through all this trouble for shelves.” 

“Hey,” she objected. “It’s not just the shelves, it’s the house too. Don’t you dare forget that part.” 

“Wouldn’t dare,” he assured her. “Ready again?” 

The music dropped again, and he spun her, but she was prepared this time, and fell back into the pattern with relative ease. “It’s strange,” she remarked. “Growing up, I had my father, and I had—well, Luca. And then I had Polly and Ada and—”  _ You _ , she wanted to say, but stopped just short of making a fool of herself. “And John,” she settled instead. “I had you all, and soon—well, soon I won’t have much of anything.” 

“I told you I don’t care if you come back to see Poll and Ada,” he reminded her. 

“No—no, I know,” she rushed to explain. How could she make sense of this? It was an impending sense of grief, and as stupid as Tommy might think she was for it, she couldn’t help but add, “I just—well, it won’t be the same.” 

Tommy shrugged. “You can find yourself a hobby. Take up painting. Become a dancer. I don’t care.” 

It was cold, but what had she expected? Trixie swallowed and nodded. “Right—I, um—right.” The song changed, and Trixie recognized it instantly. “Fitting,” she remarked. 

“What’s that?” Tommy asked. 

“‘ _ Five Foot Two, Eyes of Blue’,”  _ she explained. “It’s always on the radio.”

“Do you like it?” he asked. 

“Oh, yes,” Trixie said. “I find it deeply relatable.” 

At that, he cracked a smile, but slid his hand from her waist to check his pocketwatch. “It’s time,” he remarked. 

“Time for what?” she asked. 

“Time for my plan,” he replied, spinning them around so she was facing the cluster of tables and he was facing the stage. Then, with surprising force, Tommy began  _ dancing  _ her backwards. She stumbled, trying to keep up with his steps. 

“Should I be ready to duck?” 

“Always.” 

He released his grip on her waist and pulled her by the hand towards the door, which he then kicked open. Trixie caught a glance at the couple pressed up against the wall beside it, kissing intimately while the rest of the world moved and turned around them. She averted her eyes immediately. Even if they were in public, it was too intimate to watch. She felt like she was knocking down a door just by knowing they were there. 

Meanwhile, Tommy was unbothered, sticking his head out the door. His lips broke into a grin when Arthur appeared, quite literally out of nowhere, five heavy bags on his arms, jangling from the coins within. “We chased the Lees across the track and down Devon Road,” he announced proudly. “Got every penny back.” Then, noticing Trixie, he caught his breath enough to say, “Nice dress, Trixie.” 

“Thank you, Arthur,” she replied, nodding at him politely. “Got it for my last wedding, figured I’d repurpose it for this one.” It wasn’t even true—it had been for the engagement party, not the ceremony itself, but the way Tommy stiffened at the reminder was enough to convince Trixie not to correct herself. Payback for his jab about the buyout. 

“Thrifty, eh?” he remarked. “Well, if Tommy doesn’t work out, you can—” 

“Alright,  _ thank you,  _ Arthur,” Tommy interrupted. “I’ll take it from here. Buy the men a round of drinks. Anybody hurt?” 

“Few cuts and bruises,” Arthur replied, gesturing at his own swollen cheek. 

“Good man,” said Tommy, patting him firmly on the shoulder, before bending over and lifting up the bags. While Arthur had struggled with them, Tommy slung them over his shoulder with ease. “Alright, Beatrice. Off we go.” 

He led her through the crowd, but made no attempt to dance this time around. Probably for the best—she didn’t know how they’d manage if he was still swinging around bags of money with the trajectory of a ball-and-chain. Couples split, or skittered out of the way, to make room for Tommy Shelby, and while Trixie wasn’t quite as aggressive as she moved across the dance floor, she wasn’t exactly moving out of the way to make room for others. 

She recognized Kimber as soon as she saw him, the odd way his hair parted down the middle distinct, especially when paired with his mustache. Tommy didn’t hesitate like she did, he just dumped the bags of coins down onto the table unceremoniously, letting the excess money spill out onto the tablecloth and startling Kimber’s companions. “Your money, Mr. Kimber,” he greeted. “Rescued from the Lee Brothers, and returned to you with the request for a fair hearing.” He smoothed his coat down, and pulled a chair out for himself. Trixie followed, sinking down delicately into the seat behind him. 

Tommy didn’t wait for Kimber’s permission, he just leaned back in the chair as if he owned this place—and perhaps he soon would. Trixie folded her hands together and rested them on the table. 

“Your protection is failing you, Mr. Kimber,” said Tommy. “Your boys are taking cuts. I want to suggest that, from now on, you contract out your racetrack security to the Peaky Blinders.” He dug his cigarettes out, holding the box out to Trixie. “Want one?” 

She glanced back at Kimber, and the woman behind him—holding her cigarette delicately with a holder. “I’m alright.” 

Tommy shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He pulled one out for himself and held it between his lips to free his hands for striking a match. “We’d be saving you a lot of money, Mr. Kimber. A lot of money.” He fiddled with the matchbox, lighting one under his chin and leaning forward to dip the cigarette into the flame. “In return, you give us five percent of the take, and three legal betting pitches at every race meeting north of the River Severn, rising to six after one year, if we’re all satisfied with service.” 

Trixie had tried to advise him on this deal in the car, since that was as soon as he’d offered up his plan to her, but without much of a concrete understanding on Kimber’s earnings and spending, it was hard to come up with anything concrete. Five had been safe, but looking at it now, she wished they’d started with ten and negotiated it down. Clearly, they were making much, much more than Trixie had anticipated. 

“What do you say, Mr. Kimber?” he asked. 

Kimber stared back, and Trixie couldn’t discern if he was considering the offer, or so furious that they’d intruded on his tracks that he was going to fucking kill them. Either way, she remained still, glancing cautiously between Tommy and Kimber and waiting for one of them to move. 

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” he said finally. 

“Tho—” Tommy started, only for Kimber to cut him off again. 

“No,” he said. “No, I  _ know  _ you. Who the fuck is she?” 

Tommy glanced over at Trixie and said, “This is Beatrice Price. My accountant. She’s here to talk business.” 

“That’s your accountant?” Kimber asked, incredulous. “This... _ girl?  _ Where’s she bloody from?” 

“Norway,” Trixie retorted sarcastically. “And  _ she  _ would appreciate if you spoke directly to her when asking questions of her concern. Thank you.” 

Kimber blinked, almost impressed. “My apologies.” He cleared his throat. “Well—I see you’ve got an idea of what you want. Why don’t you talk business with my accountant?” he offered, nodding towards the bespectacled man at his side. “I want to dance. I’m sure you won’t mind if I ask your partner, here?” he asked. Trixie realized, suddenly, that Kimber was talking to her, and her jaw dropped open. Kimber leaned over to Tommy and whispered loudly enough for Trixie to hear, “If you give me a shot with her, I’ll give you a shot with mine.” 

Tommy’s gaze slid over to Trixie, where he was met with a scowl.  _ Don’t you dare. Don’t you fucking dare.  _ Nevertheless, he replied, “Of course, Mr. Kimber. You’re welcome to ask her.” 

Kimber extended his hand towards Trixie. “Miss Price, may I have this dance?” 

She blinked at him once, disbelieving, before leaning back in her chair. “ _ No _ . I’m here to discuss business, actually. I’d prefer if we could keep things professional, hm?”

Clearly not expecting to be rejected, Kimber stared at her, frozen, for a long moment. He dropped his hand and gritted his teeth. “Scarlett,” he demanded, practically wrestling the woman at his side out of her seat. “Let’s go.” 

“ _ Billy!”  _ she hissed, hurrying to throw her cigarette into the ashtray before he dragged her out to the dance floor. Trixie watched, horrified at his treatment of his companion and still relieved that she’d managed to escape it. 

By the time they’d cleared out, Kimber’s accountant had already opened a leather portfolio and pulled out a pen. Maybe this behavior was an odd thing from Trixie’s perspective, but he’d clearly seen his fair share of it. “How many men can you put in the field at one time?” he asked Tommy. 

“Two guards for every bookie,” Trixie replied, pulling the accountant’s attention back to her. 

“Two?” he asked, impressed. 

“Lot of men are out of work at the moment,” she replied. “So, yes. Two.” 

“Do you have extra provisions in place to protect from retaliation by the Lees?” he asked. 

Tommy cleared his throat, balancing his cigarette gently between two fingers. “We’ve got Rroma blood,” Tommy replied. “Means we have contacts who know what their whereabouts are and what they’re planning at any given moment. We’ll know when they want to attack, and we can stop it before it happens.” 

“And what makes you better than the police?” he asked. 

Trixie laughed, before realizing that it had been a serious question. “Sorry, sir. All due respect—the police have their hands full. Between the IRA, the communists, the strikes. They won’t be able to focus on you. Not like we can.” 

The accountant nodded, scribbling something down on the page. “And are you going to be able to account for those troubles, should they arrive at the track?” 

Tommy exhaled smoke, and then nodded. “Men aren’t so prone to revolt when they’re busy at work. We’re the middle ground.” He patted Trixie on the shoulder. “I’m going to get a drink. I trust you two can continue this discussion in my absence.” 

She nodded up at him, watching as he disappeared towards the bar before resuming her attention on Kimber’s accountant. “I don’t think I caught your name,” she admitted. 

“Roberts,” he said. “Matthew Roberts.” 

“Right, then,” she noted. “Mr. Roberts, are there any other concerns I can help you with?” 

“How much do you pay your men?” he asked. “Are they wanting for money? Willing to take bribes?”

Trixie considered. “We pay them enough. Most of the Peaky Blinders are loyal to us based on our being like family to them. We take care of our men, and they take care of our collateral. Beyond that, though, we provide them with sufficient reason not to take bribes.” 

“Such as?” Roberts asked. 

“Such as...one of the Shelby brothers will have them killed and thrown into the river if they do,” Trixie supplied. “Any other questions?” 

“How does a woman like you find herself as an accountant?” he asked. “Not to make any assumptions, Miss Price, but I would guess you are not, in fact, Norwegian.” 

“No,” she conceded. “That would be right. I was taught arithmetic by my father, and I learned to balance books by keeping track of Church collections.” 

“No schooling?” 

“No schooling.” 

He nodded, then flipped to another page of his notebook. He yanked a page of paper out, and scratched down something hastily. “You could be doing much better than a petty street gang,” he told her. “If you had the degree for it. This is the name of a program director at King’s College down in London. He’s more... _ progressive _ . Might even allow you to sit on some courses, if you don’t mind the trouble of getting there.” 

Trixie narrowed her eyes at him, but accepted the paper. She’d never considered that she might have a path towards legitimate business. “Oh.” She stared down at the name and address. “Thank you, Mr. Roberts,” she said, folding it neatly and placing it in her purse. With Tommy planning to get rid of her soon, and the house in the countryside seeming more and more boring, she could use a way to spend her time. Perhaps she could occupy herself with a formal education. 

“You two seem to be making a deal.” Trixie looked up and found Kimber hovering over her. 

Roberts steeled himself. “We’re making progress.” 

Kimber sat down at her side. “Let me throw a small condition into the mix,” he offered. “Dinner at my house, eh? I believe you and I may have gotten off on the wrong foot.” 

Trixie resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Why dinner?” she tried. “Why not resolve all this while we’re here?” 

“Because,” Kimber said simply. “I’m not in the mood for making deals right now, but perhaps I will be later tonight.” He rested a hand on her thigh and Trixie bit down on her cheek to keep from veering away. 

“Here’s hoping,” she muttered. “Mr. Kimber, I’m not sure your wife would appreciate you touching me like that.” 

“Ehhh,” he said lazily. “Who gives a fuck what she thinks though, right?” 

Her stomach lurched. “Right. Um…” 

“Gentlemen, Beatrice.” The familiar rumble of Tommy’s voice had Kimber yanking his hand away from Trixie’s thigh. “Have we made progress?” 

Smirking in her direction, Kimber responded, “Oh, I think we’re quite on our way.” 

“That a fact?” Tommy asked, clearly directing his question towards Trixie. 

“I think we’re making progress,” she agreed. “Mr. Kimber has offered a condition, though.” 

Tommy’s eyes slid over to Kimber. “A condition, eh?” 

“I’d like to have you over for dinner,” he said, placing his hand back on Trixie’s thigh, deliberate enough for Tommy to notice. He pursed his lips, but didn’t say anything. Kimber leaned over to Trixie, his nose hovering close to her neck, and added, “As I told Miss Price...I might be in a better mood for doing business in the evening.” 

Tommy raised his eyebrows at her, almost imperceptibly. A question.  _ Is that alright with you?  _ She could say no, she realized, make some kind of excuse for why she needed to get home. But she’d agreed to help him with this, and as long as she didn’t actually have to touch Kimber, she could deal with pretending to find him even remotely pleasant to be around. She shrugged the slightest bit.  _ Might as well.  _ They’d come this far already, and she wasn’t a coward. She wanted to finish what they’d started. 

After a moment of consideration, Tommy nodded. “Right, then,” he said. “Dinner it is.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally, dinner was included in this chapter, but it ended up expanding to, like, almost 10,000 words which was just kind of a lot so for pacing’s sake I decided to split it into 2, with the next one coming on Wednesday! 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! The races were always one of my favorite scenes, so I had a really great time putting my own spin on things. Thank you to **Shareece, lmenin, SpecialAgentFiction, eiman, ferallahey, JMBH, cdsnowbarger, Luckylily, macademilk, J, Gin_In_A_Tin** and **alreadyafan** for commenting on the last chapter! Please let me know what you thought of this one as well, I’d love to hear your thoughts :) 
> 
> **Chapter 15** / _Both Ends of the Candle_
> 
> Tommy had never seen her like this, so open with him. Whatever she’d smoked with Kimber’s wife had made her pliant and loose, in a way that struck him as almost being unfair; she should be home in bed in this state, not stuck with him. “We’re so alike,” she admitted, reaching across the car for his hand. “Tommy. You see me, don’t you?” 
> 
> Never in his life had he been smitten, and he wasn’t going to start now. But Tommy still found himself nodding, swallowing, his throat like sandpaper. “I see you,” he managed. “And you see me.” 
> 
> She smiled, satisfied. “God, at least there’s that.” She exhaled, relieved. “At least we have each other.” 


	16. Both Ends of the Candle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes Kimber being predatory in a way that's specifically fetishizing Trixie's Blackness, which is very gross and I don't condone it at all; it's nothing explicit but it does vaguely reference stereotypes about Black women's sexuality that are incorrect and offensive. If you want a version with those lines removed, please let me know and I will be happy to provide it.
> 
> listen to this chapter’s soundtrack [here.](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7gVZgytheX36aMq8MqDKjO?si=D0FbBzDVSSaKaWQzvGx6ig)

" _Do not be deceived: 'Bad company ruins good morals.'"_ —1 Corinthians 15:33

* * *

"Are you alright?"

It was hardly what Trixie had expected him to say, but Tommy was full of surprises this evening. Here they were, pulling up in Kimber's long, winding driveway, the sun setting low and casting them in golden light that would've been impossible to achieve in Birmingham. Part of Trixie wanted to flee the scene altogether, and just sit in Kimber's garden while Tommy sorted it out, but that was hardly a real option. So she sat up a bit straighter and nodded. "Yes," she said. "Why?" she added, to be combative.

Tommy bristled. "Kimber had his hands on you."

"Oh, that?" Trixie said, as if the memory wasn't making her nauseous at the very moment. She shrugged in a poor attempt at nonchalance. "It's not important."

In the driver's seat, his grip on the steering wheel turned white-knuckled. With a grimace, he dug something out of his pocket. "Give me your hand."

Trixie eyed him for a moment, but offered her palm. In it, he deposited something wooden. "What's this?"

"Butterfly knife," Tommy replied. "Keep it latched so you don't stab yourself, _please_ , but if he gets out of hand, use it."

She pressed her thumbnail against the latch and pulled the knife open carefully, a glinting silver blade concealed between the split wooden handle. Trixie had never stabbed anyone before, but if she had to start, she might as well start with Kimber—though Campbell was an equally appealing contender. "Can't imagine it would be good for business if I stab him." That brought his eyes to her, and Trixie wrapped her hand around the handle of the knife, jutting the blade out forward. "You think he'd be more amenable to a deal if he was bleeding out?"

He almost looked amused for a fleeting second, only to inform her, "You're holding it wrong."

She looked down at the knife. "What do you mean, I'm holding it wrong?"

"Blade goes up," he explained, reaching for the knife. Trixie let him take it easily, allowing him to reposition her grip on it with his own hands so that her thumb rested on the flat of the blade. "Angle it up if you're stabbing, but it'll be easier to slash if you can get far enough away."

Suddenly, the possibility of having to _stab_ another person felt far more real. She had a knife, and Kimber, presumably, had blood running through his veins that would...come out if he was stabbed. Trixie flicked the latch back down, rotating the handle and re-concealing the blade. Once it was fastened, she tucked it into her clutch and buried it under her coin purse. "Oh- _kay_ , well—hopefully that won't come up." She looked at Tommy. "Alright?"

"What."

"Are you alright?"

He furrowed his brow. "Think so."

Trixie huffed. Why did he have to be so difficult about it? "You asked me, figured I'd return the favor."

"Fine."

"Well are you?"

"Am I what?"

"Jesus. Are you alright?"

Tommy met her eyes with mock-fondness. "Yes, Beatrice, all is well. Now should we go inside?"

She shrugged and reached over for the level to open the car door. "Fine. Yes. Let's go." As she gathered her things, Tommy stepped out of his seat and met her on her side of the car, a hand waiting for her own. "I'm sure I'll be alright," she told him, but he didn't move. Trixie grabbed onto it lightly, making a point of not needing him to stand up straight, and descended carefully into his driveway. The house, stone on the outside, looked significantly more inviting than she remembered Kimber being, unless she included in that his aggressive invitation for dinner in her factoring. Almost immediately, a white-gloved valet greeted them, and Tommy passed the keys to him wordlessly as he led Trixie inside.

A maid in a pristine uniform opened the door and bowed her head slightly. "Mr. Shelby, Miss Price. Mr. Kimber, Mrs. Kimber, and Mr. Roberts are in the reading room."

Trixie glanced over at Tommy, wondering if he felt nearly as uncomfortable as she did. He knew power, sure, and wealth, absolutely, but not like this—5 Watery Lane was more comparable to Trixie's apartment than to a house like this.

If he was nervous, he didn't show it. Tommy smiled politely at the maid. "And where can we find the reading room?"

"Follow me," she said, turning and walking down the massive entry corridor. Her heels echoed against the floor as she dodged the central staircase for a room off to the right, with vaulted ceilings and pale blue walls. Inside, Mrs. Kimber was lounged out on the couch while her husband and Roberts nursed cigarettes and whiskey. "Mr. Shelby, Miss Price," the maid introduced.

Trixie, not knowing what to do with herself, resisted the urge to curtsy. This wasn't Buckingham fucking palace—there was no reason for her to be acting so absurdly. "Mr. Shelby," Kimber greeted. "Were you able to find the house alright?"

"It's a large home," Tommy replied. "Certainly hard to miss." Trixie wasn't sure if it was a compliment or not. Her home in the countryside would hardly be this extravagant. Just books and a garden and she would be happy. "May we join you?"

"Oh, I was just about to leave Scarlett here," Kimber dismissed. His wife lifted her head up off the couch for a moment to inspect the newcomers, but laid delicately back down with a dissatisfied glance. She threw one gloved-hand over her eyes and scowled. "She's complaining of a headache," he said, like he didn't entirely believe her. "No need to string her along. Do you play Billiards, Mr. Shelby?"

Tommy leaned back the slightest bit and dropped Trixie's hand to put his own in the pockets of his jacket. "I'm a bit out of practice."

"Can't hurt to try, can it? Feel free to come along too, Miss Price."

"I'm afraid I don't know how to play," she said sparingly. "But I'd be happy to come along."

Kimber winked. "I'll teach you."

Trixie said nothing to that, just concentrated very hard on smiling politely as they followed Kimber back out into the central corridor and into another room, this one decorated quite differently, the walls boarded with dark wood and an expensive chandelier hanging over the billiards table. She didn't care much for that, though—Trixie found herself drawn to the shelves and shelves of books lining the walls.

"Do you read often?" she asked, before remembering that she'd been instructed to follow Tommy's lead.

Kimber scoffed. "No. They came with the house, I don't care for reading."

Trixie nodded, but wondered how he could be in possession of such an expansive library and not have any interest in reading its volumes. One book, with its thick blue spine adorned with golden trim, caught her attention from the shelf she was standing beside. _Wuthering Heights._ "Do you mind?" she asked.

Kimber waved her away, too busy shrugging off his jacket to care what she was doing. Tommy kept his own jacket on—probably for the best. If Kimber caught a glimpse of the holster he was wearing, negotiations might not be so friendly. Trixie pulled the book carefully from the shelf and flipped it open, the pages smooth under the pads of her fingers. While Kimber and Tommy moved to the Billiards table, she settled gingerly on the couch across from Roberts and began reading. The conversations were never interesting at the beginning—just small talk. And especially now, with Kimber making a show of explaining the rules of the game to Tommy, she knew she wouldn't be needed for a while.

So she read instead, all too interested in the stories of Catherine and Heathcliff to pay attention to the combative small talk playing out across the room. Roberts seemed to feel similarly, as he soon stood and selected a book off the shelf to read as well.

What must it be like to be Mrs. Kimber? To live in this great big house and have no one to keep you company but _Billy fucking Kimber?_ No wonder she was complaining of a headache.

Trixie was a good three chapters into the book by the time she was disturbed—not by business negotiations, but by Kimber calling her over to the table. "Come here, Miss Price, I'd like the chance to speak with you."

She indulged him, setting the book aside on the embroidered couch cushion and heading to the side of the table, directly opposite Kimber and parallel to Tommy. "What can I do for you, Mr. Kimber?"

He beckoned her closer. Trixie shot a quizzical look towards Tommy but didn't refuse, rounding the table's corner. "The game's more fun with three," he explained. "And you ought to learn, in case this meeting gives way to future negotiations."

"Right," Trixie drawled, accepting the cue stick he held out towards her. She, for one, was in favor of the outcome where she and Tommy never had to do this again. Still, she would humor him for the evening. "What's the goal here?"

"Whoever pots the most balls wins," Kimber said, pointing to the triangle where they'd been neatly arranged on the other side of the table. "Now, I'm of the opinion that the lady should go first. Mr. Shelby, I'm sure you agree?"

"Please," said Tommy, and Trixie smothered a laugh. His politeness was hardly natural.

"Alright," Kimber insisted, guiding Trixie's hands as Tommy had with the knife. He pulled her right arm back and bracketed it with his own, sidling up behind her and bending her over the table with the force of her own body.

"I don't remember you doing this when teaching Tommy," she quipped, but Kimber didn't budge. He was hot, in a deeply unpleasant, muggy way. She met Tommy's eyes across the table and sent him a look of annoyance. Her knife was in her purse, which was on the couch next to Cathy and Heathcliff. And anyway, this didn't really warrant stabbing, did it? Tommy seemed to disagree, his face going murderously cold.

Kimber laughed graciously, which she supposed was a more favorable outcome out of all those available to her. Trixie allowed him to guide her elbow back and then forward again, sending the ball rolling forward at an angle, barely hitting the side of the triangle. "Not bad for a first shot."

Trixie might not have been familiar with the game, but she knew that there was no way that was true. She moved to stand up but Kimber held her down for a moment more, his breath hot on her neck as he inhaled her perfume. Tommy watched the exchange, looking momentarily horrified, before Kimber stood and moved to the next turn. A sigh of relief escaped her lips as she straightened. On the opposite side of the table, Tommy caught her gaze, as if asking again, _Are you alright?_

She nodded the slightest bit, in case that was the question on his mind. If Kimber decided to touch her again, she'd just make an excuse to need the bathroom, or sit down.

"Do you find that games improve your mood?" Trixie asked politely.

Kimber shot the ball forward, and one of the violet balls rolled into the pocket at the end of the table. "I always loved watching the odds unfold," he said. "Races, gambling, it's all luck. But this is skill, and so all the more impressive when a man proves himself by winning." He lined up another shot, and then the white ball rocketed forwards and ricocheted off the green felt of the table, knocking a yellow ball just short of the pocket. "And all the more pathetic when he loses." Not accidentally, he followed up with, "Your turn, Mr. Shelby."

"Certainly, Mr. Kimber."

Tommy stepped back to observe the table again, and then lined up the cue stick to knock the yellow ball into the pocket that Kimber had missed. Trixie suspected that it wasn't accidental.

"Are you a fan of horses?" she asked. "Outside the races, I mean."

"Oh, no, they're repulsive," Kimber replied easily. Tommy stiffened. "They're best for making money—dignified in the way cock-fighting is not, and fast enough to draw a crowd. But outside of that, they're just large and unsanitary."

Trixie, who didn't care either way, shrugged to acknowledge his point. "I see."

Tommy's next shot was close, but successful. On the next, he fumbled. "Back to you, Trixie."

"Do you feel brave enough to go this one alone?" Kimber asked.

She forced a laugh. "Oh, I suppose I'll try."

Narrowing her eyes at the table, Trixie settled on a ball to shoot: the blue one that sat near the furthest corner of the table. She leaned balanced the pole in her left thumb and drew her right arm back. The white ball shot forward, but she'd miscalculated the necessary force, and it bounced over the edge of the table and landed noisily on the floor, before rolling towards the center of the table.

"Christ," she said. "Sorry about that."

"You don't mind picking it up, do you?" Kimber asked.

Trixie _did_ mind, in fact. For a dinner invitation, the evening was sorely lacking in food, and if she had to keep humiliating herself for much longer, she might actually stab him. Still, she gathered the skirts of her dress in one hand and used the other to balance herself on the edge of the table, kneeling down and plucking the ball up from off the floor. When she rose, Kimber was grinning at her like he'd won some sort of game. "Here you go," she said.

"Thank you, Miss Price, very kind of you."

"Of course," said Trixie, who tried very hard not to gag.

Thankfully, there was a ringing from outside the door then that interrupted their game. "Dinner's ready," Kimber announced. "Do you like lamb, Mr. Shelby?"

"I like lamb," Tommy replied.

"Wonderful. Why don't you let Mr. Roberts lead you to the dining room, and I'll accompany Miss Price."

Trixie's stomach did a flip. Why would he want to speak to her alone? She watched helplessly as Tommy fixed his cufflinks and put his cue stick back on the rack. He shot her a quick, worried look, but didn't object, following Roberts out into the hallway and shutting the door behind him. "Something I can help you with?" she asked.

Kimber stared up at the door with aching concentration for a moment before meeting her eyes. "Beatrice," he said. "May I call you Beatrice?"

 _No_ , she thought immediately. "Yes, that's fine," she said instead.

"As interested as I am in doing business with your boss, I'm not quite tempted by the offer currently on the table."

"I see," Trixie said, jutting her chin out and trying not to look afraid. "And what else are you looking for?"

"Well," Kimber said, taking a step towards her and bending down a bit so his face was in her neck. "I've never had a woman like you before, but I've heard things."

Trixie swallowed, not wanting him to elaborate, willing to do almost anything to keep him from elaborating. Kimber's breath was hot, and she leaned away slowly, only for his face to follow. "Alright, um—well—" she stumbled. "I don't think that you should believe what you hear."

He laughed. "Well, then, I'd like to find out."

"Right," she said. "It's just that I—um—Mr. Shelby—" She hurried to come up with a reason he'd accept. "Mr. Shelby has arranged a marriage between his brother and I." Trixie cringed—Arthur was a pain, and John was more like her brother than anything. "And I think this could jeopardize any agreement between you two while negotiations are still pending."

Kimber froze, his face still in her neck, and stood up straight. "I don't _need_ Thomas Shelby, though, now do I?"

Trixie bit the inside of her cheek. "I think you do," she said, taking a confident step backwards and trying not to trip on the hem of her own skirt. "Mr. Kimber, you're a businessman losing money because your men don't see you as a true authority figure. If they're willing to take a cut off the top, then who's to say they're loyal enough to protect you if the Lees come back—not for the money, but for you? Can they be bought?"

Kimber leaned back against the table, his pool cue still in his right hand.

Trixie continued. "If you do business with us, you won't have to worry about that—the bribery, the vulnerability, any of it. You can spend your days dancing with beautiful women at the tracks and your nights playing Billiards. Think of all you could do if you were safe. Secure." And then, trying to keep the disgust from creeping onto her face, Trixie added, "And as for the other—well—as for me. I can't do anything to endanger my engagement, but the Shelbys are Catholic." _They won't go through with a divorce._ She'd leave the door open for him with no intent of ever walking through it.

It took a minute, but he eventually seemed to piece it together. "And when will you be married?"

"We haven't chosen a date."

Kimber shrugged. "Perhaps at a later meeting, we can make a deal of our own."

She attempted to smile flirtatiously, putting a hand over his for a moment, and then said, "Shall we head to dinner?"

He nodded. "Please. Follow me."

* * *

In the dining room, Trixie was not disappointed by the options presented for them. After a soup course and an appetizer of clams, Kimber's staff delivered a plate of lamb, potatoes, and peas. It was, without a doubt, the most exquisite meal she'd ever enjoyed. If only the conversation between those around the table wasn't so miserable. Trixie sat beside Mrs. Kimber and opposite Roberts, while Kimber and Tommy occupied opposite heads of the table.

"I detest lamb," Kimber's wife mumbled. Trixie blinked and then looked to Kimber, waiting for a reaction. He just rolled his eyes. "You know I detest lamb."

"I love lamb," said Kimber. "Don't you like lamb, Beatrice?"

Tommy's fork clattered on his plate, and he cleared his throat. "Pardon me."

Trixie stared awkwardly between Kimber and his wife, both glaring at each other with such focus that they missed Tommy's misstep. "I've never had lamb before tonight, but the food is delicious," she offered, and took a large bite of her potatoes.

Scarlett Kimber dropped her fork onto her plate and covered her eyes with her hands, moaning quietly and miserably. Trixie found herself staring at Roberts, who offered her a slight roll of his eyes, like this was their daily ritual.

By the time the courses were cleared and dessert had been served, Trixie was full and happily sleepy. She sipped delicately from the wine—undoubtedly expensive, but tasting identical to every other glass she'd had before. The fruitcake was delicious, rich and sweet and decadent, but Kimber's wife refused to touch hers.

"Gentlemen, why don't we finish our game?" Kimber suggested, pulling the napkin from his neck and tossing it onto his plate. "We'll have Mr. Roberts take Beatrice's place, and maybe the ladies can keep each other company."

Trixie opened her mouth to object, but Tommy beat her to the punch. "A good plan," he remarked, and Trixie gritted her teeth. "Perhaps I'll manage to beat you one of these rounds."

"Wouldn't count on it," Kimber said, and then laughed like it was a joke, even though the tension in the room suggested otherwise. "Gentlemen," he prompted, and then the three men left, speaking privately among themselves as they returned to the Billiards room. Trixie watched them go, trying to understand what the fuck had changed and left her out of the equation. Mrs. Kimber didn't move, though, her head still in her hands, until the door of the other room closed and their voices faded. Then, like Lazarus out of the grave, she perked up.

"Oh, thank God," she bemoaned. "I thought that might never end."

Trixie's brow furrowed. "The—do you mean dinner?"

"Can't stand to eat with that man," she muttered. "I eat and he tells me I eat too much, I don't eat, he threatens to leave me for being _ungrateful."_ Then, she skewered the fruitcake with her fork and shoved a large bite into her mouth, chewing it hurriedly. "What do you want?"

"I'm—sorry, what?"

"Fruitcake," the woman said. "It's out of season, the fruit isn't good anymore. I can have the cook make us something else. Do you like chocolate?"

Trixie had no idea what to say; she was still trying to process the character swap that had taken place before her eyes. "Yes," she said.

Mrs. Kimber nodded, standing up and marching towards the kitchen. When she returned a moment later, she had a plate of potatoes in one hand and a spoon in the other. She grinned challengingly as she settled into her husband's seat at the end of the table. "I don't know what it is they see from here," she remarked around a mouthful of potatoes. "The world cannot possibly be better from this part of the table, but he still acts like he's never going to die."

"The men get other things besides the best seat at the table," Trixie remarked, though her description of Kimber was horrifyingly applicable to Tommy, as well.

Mrs. Kimber pointed at her with the spoon. "That's a fact."

"How long have you been married?" Trixie asked.

The woman shrugged. "Too long. I'd leave, but I've no money of my own, so I may as well put up with everything else." She scraped the side of her spoon against the plate and scooped up the last bit of food. "What about you? Are you married?"

"No," said Trixie. Maybe she should've mentioned her fake engagement to Tommy, or her new fake engagement to his brother, but this woman was being so candid that telling a lie felt even worse than usual. "Maybe someday."

"Don't," Mrs. Kimber said. "Your name's Beatrice?"

"Yeah."

"I'm Scarlett."

A maid pushed through the doors to the kitchen, two plates of chocolate dessert in hand. Trixie watched as Scarlett handed off the old potato plate in exchange for one of the dessert ones, like she'd done this before. Hell, she probably had.

Trixie poked the dessert with her spoon carefully, and found that it was almost foamy in texture. She took a small bite—it was quite pleasant, rich and soft and cool. Had Scarlett told her what it was called? She didn't ask, for fear of looking stupid and out of touch. Instead, she ate the dessert without shame, noting as Kimber's wife did the same.

"Chocolate is good year round," Scarlett remarked. "That's why I like it best." She seized Kimber's abandoned glass and took a large gulp of wine. "Do you like it as well?"

"Haven't had much of it before," she admitted. "Small Heath has its charms, but not its luxuries."

"Oh, god, you poor thing," said Scarlett. Trixie liked the chocolate, sure, but that was hardly what was occupying her thoughts at the moment. Rather, she was busy with imagining the conversations and dealings happening in the other room. Only when Scarlett shoved her empty dish away from her did Trixie refocus on the table. "Come with me."

Trixie had not yet finished her dessert, but she was full from the fruitcake and the courses that had preceded it, so she stood up and followed the other woman out of the dining room and down the hallway.

"It's boring not being in the room," Scarlett remarked over her shoulder. She braced her hand on one of the doorknobs and pushed it open. "We women have to make our own fun."

"I'm supposed to be in the room," Trixie muttered, but kept on anyway, following Scarlett through the doorway. Inside, the walls were adorned by pink and white wallpaper, and the long white couch stretched out across the room. On the table beside it was a pipe and a dish, similar to the ones she'd seen in Tommy's room but clearly more expensive. Scarlett pulled her rings off her fingers and placed her hat gently on a sewing table. "What's this room for?"

"Me," she said. "I spent most of my time here, while he finds whores to sleep with and gambles. I used to be a milliner, you know. I make most of my hats."

Scarlett sat down on the couch and kicked her shoes off, crossing her stocking-ed ankles and laying sideways on the cushion. "Want some fun?" she asked, pulling the pipe off the table and holding it out to Trixie.

"What is it?" Trixie asked, standing awkwardly in the doorway.

Patting the cushion with her foot, Scarlett grinned. "Some American thing. _Indica._ I just know it's good."

"I've only smoked cigarettes."

"It's the same thing," said Scarlett. "Well—not _quite._ This is better than cigarettes."

Trixie took a careful seat on the couch next to Scarlett, who opened the drawer of the table and found a matchbox. She handed it to Trixie and took a moment to scoop small, dried leaves out of a bottle and into the bowl of the pipe. Then, she put it into her mouth and took the matches back, lighting one and setting the leaves aflame.

One long inhale later, she tilted her head back and smiled pleasantly. "You want some?" she offered.

"I'm alright," said Trixie. She was still trying to figure out what Kimber was going to do to her, or to Tommy, and why she was here with his wife and not pretending to enjoy his stupid game. "Do his meetings take often?"

"Who knows," said Scarlett. "I've stopped paying attention." She sat up. "It is odd, though, that you're here. He never invites women into the house unless they're married to one of his associates. But I guess you're used to being odd."

"Maybe," said Trixie, but Scarlett didn't answer, instead taking another large puff off the pipe and humming to herself as she blew out the cloud of smoke. It had a strange odor, but Trixie couldn't find anything to compare it to. She waited for a while for Scarlett to say anything, but she had her eyes glued shut and seemed very much asleep. Standing from the couch, Trixie began inspecting the rest of the room. A vanity, a window seat overlooking the driveway, a collection of magazines and etiquette books stacked at the end of the cushion.

Was this going to be her life then? Trixie was grateful now to have more to worry about than surviving. No longer was she scrounging up coins for bread and trying to persuade the grocers to discount her cabbage, but what was she going to do with herself in a house in the countryside, alone? Sure, she could visit Ada and Poll and John, but what was she supposed to do beyond that? It wasn't like she could take the train every day.

She should probably get married, at some point, but it felt so wrong as it applied to her, like a dress that had been tailored with completely falsified proportions. If she did, though, she could keep busy with children, but then she remembered that most of the mothers in Small Heath seemed to be dead. Her own, the Shelbys', Polly's, Luca's. Trixie didn't want to die, but she didn't want her life to be empty, either, and it seemed that working with the Shelbys or embracing domesticity both ran the risk of the former.

Maybe she'd just numb herself, like Scarlett did. Smoke American drugs and pretend not to eat until after her husband had left the table and put up with the misery of a man who mistreated her. All of a sudden, from Scarlett's window seat, the world seemed like a very terrible place to live.

"Scarlett?" she asked.

For a second, the room was just deafeningly quiet, but then she answered, "Hmm?"

"Can I have some of that?" Trixie asked.

The other woman's head popped up from behind the back of the couch, a lazy grin on her lips. "And here I was, thinking you'd never ask."

* * *

Kimber had agreed to the terms of Tommy's proposal almost off the bat when they arrived in the Billiards Room, but he'd kept him hostage in a long game of pool even with all the business finished. Tommy didn't like having his time wasted, and he especially didn't like having his time wasted by Billy Kimber. By the time the game was over, his pocketwatch read past ten, and he was hardly in the mood for the long drive back.

"Your secretary," said Kimber, as Tommy tugged on the ends of his sleeves. "How long has she worked for you?"

"She's my accountant," Tommy corrected, strangely defensive. "And she's worked for my business three years now."

"Right," said Kimber. "And you trust her?"

Polly did, which for now was answer enough. "I do. She's never given me reason not to."

"Right, well, she's a bit of a slag, if I'm being honest with you," Kimber admitted. Tommy raised one eyebrow. "When you left, you know, she was asking me if I liked women like her. Do you know what I mean?"

"Women like her."

"She better learn her place, is what I'm saying," said Kimber. "If she wants to be a whore, she should make a living like one, too, but I don't want her coming back. That's a condition."

Tommy could've shot him. He certainly wanted to, and his gun was loaded in its holster, but that wouldn't help much with the Campbell situation, or the Lees, or the expansion. His fingers twitched at his side at Kimber's accusations, at the fact that he would bother to make them when they were so ridiculously false. _Bang._ Bullet in his head. But that was more fitting for Arthur, or even John, than it was for him.

"Deal," Tommy said, because Beatrice would never come back here by choice, and she'd be gone from the business soon altogether. "Thank you for your patience and generosity this evening, Mr. Kimber," he added, like he didn't care about Beatrice at all—and he didn't, really. She'd done what he'd asked of her. That's all there was.

"Mr. Roberts, another round?" Kimber said, already busying himself with the game. Rich men were like children. Tommy knew this, because Kimber was not the first rich man he'd known, but it fascinated him. Polly had warned him about Kimber being dangerous, but the man paid more attention to his toys than to his business.

One of Kimber's butlers was waiting to escort him out, so Tommy pulled the cap from his pocket just to have something to hold onto. "Where's Miss Price?" he asked.

"She's with Mrs. Kimber," the butler returned. "One of the maids has gone to retrieve her."

"Thanks," said Tommy, and slowed to a stop in front of the door.

The click of Beatrice's heels on the wood floor echoed unfamiliarly. Tommy made a habit of noticing patterns, and he'd noticed hers well enough; she was often quiet, and deliberately so. Now, though, her steps were heavy and clumsy, and when she finally came into view, she was trailing behind the maid with a kind of reluctance, looking extremely guilty. "Alright?" he asked, offering his arm to her.

In lieu of speaking, she nodded, grabbing onto his arm more forcefully than usual. Tommy led her outside towards the waiting car, and pulled the door open for her. "Ohhh my God," she said.

"Taking the Lord's name in vain, eh?"

Beatrice shook her head. "I…" she faltered. "I did something."

She...did something. _Okay_. Tommy shut her door and crossed the car, accepting the keys from the valet and sliding into the drivers' seat. "What did you do?"

Beatrice screwed her eyes shut and put her head in her hands. "Scarlett has a pipe like yours. The—helps you sleep."

Tommy turned the key in the ignition and started driving, because sitting in Billy fucking Kimber's driveway with her in silence was getting old fast. "You smoked opium?" he asked, glancing over at her. She was handling it fairly well, if she was still able to walk without collapsing. "Why?"

"Wasn't opium," she insisted. "American thing. Indica." She scrunched up her face, concentrating hard on remembering the name. "Cannabis."

She hadn't answered his second question, so he repeated it. "Why."

"I can't live—like _that_ ," Trixie said. "The fucking hats everywhere, and the American drugs, and the—the _Billy Kimber."_

"Well, good thing you won't be marrying him."

Trixie shook her head. "No, no, you don't understand." She took a deep breath. "I feel like my brain is evaporating. When I _leave_ , that's it. I'll be bored, all day, and the only other thing I can do with myself is get married, but I don't want to do that anymore. I don't want to get married anymore."

"Right," said Tommy. He probably should've been more irritated by this crisis, but she looked so desperate to be understood, so afraid that she'd never grasp onto it. "You wanted to get married before?"

"I had someone to marry before," she said. "Now—I can't be happy in a house all alone, and it's. It's just because you wanted to get rid of me, and now I'll have to find something else to do."

 _You wanted to get rid of me._ Tommy mulled over her words and made a serious effort to find fault in them, but she was right, wasn't she? She couldn't be tricked. That was why Polly kept her around, and why he needed her gone. He would've commented on it, maybe, or made an effort to dispute it, if she didn't seem fine with that part. It was the implications that upset her. "You don't belong in a life like this," he said, not meaning to lie but not feeling truthful in retrospect. She had a priest for a father, for fuck's sake, and she was too small to make it in any fight that counted. But that hadn't stopped her from ending up where she was, which was maybe proof to the opposite.

"If I don't belong in a life like this, then I don't belong anywhere," Beatrice said, like a proclamation. She looked over at him. "Who's going to see me?" she asked. "What man is going to marry me and _understand?_ "

If Tommy were a liar, he might make up a story about finding love, but he wasn't, and she probably wouldn't believe him, anyway.

"Who's going to want to see me," Trixie mumbled, and Tommy pulled his eyes from the road to look at her through the flashes of moonlight that shone over her through the trees. Who would want to see her, asked like he hadn't spent the last trying to learn as much about her as he could. "I can't live the rest of my life hidden, Tommy. I just can't. I've seen it, and now I can't just pretend I haven't." Suddenly, she let out a groan. "I am smart, you know, even if I sound stupid at this particular moment."

Tommy had never seen her like this, so open with him. Whatever she'd smoked with Kimber's wife had made her pliant and loose, in a way that struck him as almost being unfair; she should be home in bed in this state, not stuck with him. And she'd known it would be him—she'd known about the hour long drive ahead of them, and she hadn't worried. "Are you afraid?" he asked.

"Of Kimber?" she replied. "Yes. He thinks I'm going to sleep with him once I'm married."

"Not of Kimber. Of me."

"Oh, here we go again," she said, exasperated. "I know you. There's no reason to be afraid."

"You think?"

"You disagree?"

"If you know me, that's exactly why you should be afraid."

"But we're so alike," she said, broken like a confession. Beatrice reached across the car for his hand and seized it tightly in her cold hands. "Tommy. You see me, don't you?"

Her eyes caught the moonlight and glowed back at him, deadly serious. Never in his life had he been smitten, and he wasn't going to start now. But Tommy still found himself nodding, swallowing, his throat like sandpaper. Maybe he'd spent a year chasing nothing, maybe she'd been honest with him from the start. "I see you," he managed, remembering the morning by the canal. _I see you for what you are_. "And you see me."

She smiled, satisfied. "God, at least there's that." Beatrice turned back towards the road and blew out a breath. "At least we have each other."

Did they have each other?

"Sometimes," Trixie said, "I imagine God. And what he looks like."

"Man on the cross?"

She shook her head adamantly. "No, no. It's more like—like light. Light you can't look away from, even when you know you're going blind, even if it's set you on fire and burning you into nothing."

Tommy didn't spend much time thinking about God these days, but then again, he never really had.

"You're like that," said Trixie. "It doesn't matter how much it hurts. Nothing else compares."

Well, what does a man make of that? Tommy pressed his foot down harder on the gas pedal and tried to imagine how anyone could walk into a fire by choice. How anyone could be burning, and still unafraid. It was unnatural, wasn't it?

It was unnatural, but he and Beatrice were the same. He'd pulled a trigger once, at thirteen, and been gone from the moment the bullet spun out of the barrel. Tommy had been burning for years, now, and still, the worst thing he'd witnessed was himself, watching his sanity drift out through the trenches until he was too far gone, and now, whatever had survived walked the earth with a hunger nothing could satiate. There's no substitute for a heart.

Polly had been right about this, then. He'd been to hell and back, and nothing had scared him more than himself, his hands, the things he'd done with them. And if Beatrice wasn't afraid—if she didn't want to walk away, if she couldn't stand anything _but_ him, then she had to be worse.

And maybe Tommy ought to be afraid of her, but she was drifting off in the passenger seat of his car now, her silver dress hanging off her body like the carcass of the bride she should've been. Beatrice was terrifying, and she didn't even realize it. Which left Tommy to wonder—

What would she be capable of if she knew? What would they be capable of together?

* * *

The next morning, Trixie woke up in her own bed, still in her silver dress, her memory of the previous night foggy.

On her bedside table she found Billy Kimber's copy of _Wuthering Heights._

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:** I am so sorry for this delay ah my partner surprised me with a visit and my writing got totally thrown off because I was just so happy to see her. I hope this extra long chapter helps make up for it! Thank you to everybody who commented for the lovely feedback last chapter and please let me know what you thought of this as well!
> 
> **Chapter 16 /**  
>  _Red Wire, Red String_
> 
> Tommy took a moment to inspect her face. Compared to Scudboat, Trixie had come out of their encounter with the Lees relatively unscathed, save for the cut on her cheek that would most certainly scar. Wordlessly, he removed his handkerchief from his pocket.
> 
> Trixie reached out to take it from him, but he bypassed her, cradling the back of her head gently in one hand and using the other to dab at the blood.
> 
> "Oh," she said, the word falling out of her mouth before she could stop it. Tommy wished she wasn't so lovely.


	17. Red Wire, Red String

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listen to this chapter’s soundtrack [here.](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7ivYFKZLwzuSPe7InIbIEG?si=MckIVv3aRomfyREODnhVRg)

_ “Now it came about when he had finished speaking to Saul, that the soul of Jonathan was knit to the soul of David, and Jonathan loved him as himself.” _ —1 Samuel 18:1

Trixie decided the morning after the races that Scarlett Kimber’s brand of fun differed quite significantly from her own, and that she had no interest in pursuing it ever again. Her memories of the night previous blurred beginning with the pipe, and all she could recount from thereafter was that Tommy had driven her home and walked her to the door before leaving to head home himself. When she woke, her mouth was dry, and the copy of  _ Wuthering Heights  _ from Kimber’s library sat atop her nightstand. 

Had she stolen that, or had Tommy? Surely, she would’ve remembered if she’d been the one to pocket the book, but there was no reason for Tommy to take it on her behalf. Trixie reached over for the book and thumbed through its pages in search of an indication as to how it had been transported from Kimber’s mansion to her tenement, but it was untouched. The spine was unbent, she realized. Trixie had been the first to read it. 

Well, however it had gotten there, she wasn’t going to let it go to waste. Trixie spent Sunday at Church and then at home racing through the remaining chapters—by the time she’d finished, it was time for bed. 

Monday saw her back to work—and likely back to seeing Tommy again. She felt like she should be embarrassed about the state he’d seen her in, but everything was so temporary these days. What did it matter what he thought? Soon they’d part, and never see each other again, and she’d marry some dreadfully boring man and waste away raising their children. When she arrived at the betting shop, Tommy hadn’t yet arrived, so Trixie deposited her things at her usual seat before approaching the chalkboards. She poked John squarely in the back. 

“Morning,” she greeted. 

He nearly jumped out of his skin. “Jesus, Trixie,” he hissed. “It’s too early.” 

She reached over to his breast pocket and plucked the half-full flask from him. “Too early for poking, but not too early to be drunk at work?” 

John snatched it away. “Mind your business.” 

“Yeah, yeah. Have you seen your sister?” 

The races had been a distraction—and not even that pleasant of one—but Trixie knew that Campbell would find her soon enough and start demanding answers. 

“Not since she ran off with Freddie,” said John. “Why?” 

“Well, I’m worried,” Trixie said. She had no plans to sell Ada out to the cops, or Freddie by proxy, but she needed to come up with something. And if she knew where they were, she could point Campbell in the wrong direction, or at least warn them of his pursuit. “I haven’t seen her in so long. She’s pregnant, she needs support.” 

John shrugged. “Yeah, well, not like Freddie’s doing much of that. Doesn’t fuckin pay to be a communist, does it?” 

Trixie hadn’t read Marx—not yet—but she wasn’t clueless. “No,” she said. “No, it really doesn’t.” 

“How were the races?” he asked. 

“Not sure. We never even saw the horses.” 

“You weren’t there to see the horses.” 

She leaned back against the railing that surrounded John’s almost-stage, and considered the events of the weekend. Her second fake-engagement, Tommy’s dancing, the way Kimber had grinned at her so wolfishly. “Kimber’s a pain,” she said. “Made Tommy look like good company.” 

“Well, we knew about Kimber,” John replied, unscrewing his flask and taking a swig. “Tommy being good company, though? Ehh...doubtful.” 

Trixie laughed and looked back out at the betting shop, where the men were opening up safes and pushing coins back and forth. This was her life—she’d watched the women disappear when the war ended, marrying off to men who took their places, but she’d remained. Maybe it was silly to cling to the idea of a life where she was  _ more  _ than a woman; the era that had put her into the workforce was over, and clinging to it any longer was just desperate. 

“I’ve big news,” John whispered, an infectious grin on his face. 

“ _ Big  _ news?” Trixie asked. “Good news?” 

“Good news,” he confirmed. “I’ve gotta tell Poll and the rest of them first or they’ll get pissed, but later. Later I’ll tell you.” 

“Nine!” Arthur shouted, poking his head out of his office. “Places, boys.” She was already moving down the steps, but Arthur made a point of adding, “You too, Trixie.” 

She saluted half-heartedly and took her seat at the table, wondering what good news John could possibly want to share. It wasn’t business—John wouldn’t know something that Poll and Tommy didn’t, so what else could it be? Her thoughts had to be shoved aside by the time the doors opened and gamblers flooded into the shop, racing to place bets on the 2 o’clock. 

For quite extraordinary times, the day pulled on rather slowly. Trixie’s fingers were cold despite the energy in the room, but she left her hands bare for the sake of the counting, and the gem on her finger bounced light around the room carelessly with her movements. In fact, the day was so boring that Trixie was almost relieved when trouble found her, in the form of a man trying to place a bet when the race had already begun. The others had gone for lunch when the crowd dwindled, leaving Trixie to lock up the safes with Scudboat. 

“Don’t spend your rent money, Charlie,” he instructed seriously. 

Trixie snorted as she folded Charlie’s rent money away into the case before her, and clicked it shut when Scudboat announced that betting was closed for the day. 

“I was here on time,” one of the regulars insisted, throwing a wad of cash down in front of Trixie. 

“I’m sorry, sir,” she said. “No more bets.” 

“I’ve had a tip-off,” he pleaded. “I need this bet.” 

She shook her head. “I’m sorry, sir. You know the rules. Once the race has started, I can’t accept your money.” 

“ _ Please.”  _

“No.” 

“Fine,” the man snapped, shoving the case off the desk and sending coins flying. 

“Are you fucking serious?” Trixie asked, not moving from her chair. The remaining runners were already hurrying to pick up the coins, and one of them was stepping in front of the table to crowd the man and force him out. 

“Alright,” the man conceded, throwing his hands up. “Alright, I’m off.” 

He shrank back, and Trixie sighed. They didn’t usually listen to her, but they didn’t usually fight, either. 

“Afternoon, Beatrice.” 

She turned over her shoulder and found Tommy Shelby standing behind her. So he hadn’t been listening to her then after all, but to the self-proclaimed King of the city. “Thomas,” she greeted, matching his clipped tone. “Can I help you?” 

He hiked his eyebrow and subsequently dropped it. “No, you’re quite alright. Poll called me here.” 

Was John announcing his news? Trixie leaned back in the chair, smiling sweetly. “Anything exciting?” 

Tommy shrugged. “Family meeting.” 

“Is there ever a Shelby family meeting that isn’t exciting?” Trixie inquired. “Do you ever gather just to share what you’ve had for breakfast?” 

“Oh, every day,” he retorted. 

“Is Ada coming?” 

“Presumably not,” Tommy replied, plucking the cigarette from his mouth and ashing it in the dish on the table. “Are you worried about the Inspector, still?” 

“Yes,” she said plainly. “Yes, very much so.” 

“I told you I’d take care of it, didn’t I? C’mon, Beatrice. Have a little faith.” He pulled his cap from his head and tossed it down onto the table, taking a seat in the chair Scudboat had left behind. 

“Faith in you?” she asked, bewildered. “Now, where would that get me besides an early grave?” 

“I gave you my word.” 

“Yeah, well, you’re not known for your good character around these parts, believe it or not.” 

Tommy offered her a cigarette, but Trixie shook her head. She’d been avoiding the damn things since Saturday’s adventures with the pipe, but the craving was killing her. Maybe after Tommy left, when she was sure she could get through it without having some horrible flashback and getting sick. 

“Tommy?” Polly called, sweeping into the room while pinning a gorgeous black hat to her hair. “Oh, good. Trixie, can you and Scudboat watch the shop? John’s called for a meeting at the Garrison.” 

“Of course,” said Trixie. 

Tommy stood from the chair and shoved it back in noisily. “Be back in five,” he called to Scudboat. “I’ll talk to you later,” he told Trixie. 

“Ten’s more likely,” Polly corrected, pulling her coat onto her shoulders and leading Tommy outside. He didn’t look back as he left, but Trixie didn’t have a reason to expect him to. Instead of watching him go, she put the safe away and began locking up all the cabinets, while Scudboat handled the doors. 

“You went to the races this weekend, eh?” he called. “You want tea?” 

“Tea, yes,” Trixie said. “And yeah, I did. I thought it would involve more horses, but it was mostly dancing and trying to figure out how one eats clams.” 

“How  _ does  _ one eat clams?” Scudboat asked, setting a pot of water down on the stovetop. “You don’t eat the shells, do you?” 

“No, I think that would make the whole task rather difficult.” Probably the point of the shell, now that she thought about it, but clams probably hadn’t taken humans and their stoves into consideration when they evolved into their present form. “You cook them and they open, and then you have to scrape the meat out with a fork.” 

“Were they good?” 

“They were fine,” Trixie said. “Probably not worth all the trouble of getting to them, though.” 

“Hear you there,” Scudboat said, coming back into the main room. He sighed as he sunk down into his chair, and Trixie leaned against the table, arms folded across her chest. “Another day, another race.” 

She couldn’t think of anything clever enough to be worth replying with, so Trixie just nodded. In the kitchen, the kettle began to whistle. “I’ll get that,” she said, happy for the chance to walk around. As she busied herself with the cups, a ruckus erupted behind her—first a crash, and then several voices shouting. Eight or so men had invaded the shop, and Scudboat was already on the ground by the time she processed all that was happening. 

This was not normal. This was not  _ allowed.  _ As much as she harassed Tommy for his self-fashioned crown, she didn’t doubt that it was true in the eyes of  _ most  _ of Small Heath. People knew better than to challenge the Peaky Blinders, unless they wanted a razorblade to the throat. Trixie froze by the stove, the whistle behind her dying down. 

These men weren’t well-dressed enough to be Kimbers, nor were they uniformed, which meant that they had to be the Lees. 

The three seconds between her noticing them and them noticing her seemed to stretch on for an impossibly long time, but Trixie couldn’t move her arms from where they were held out in front of her like a brace, and even if she could, what the hell was  _ she  _ going to do in a fight against eight armed men? 

“Put that down!” one of the men shouted to her, jutting out the barrel of his rifle. 

Trixie glanced at her hand, and found that she was holding a teacup. She obeyed, and the porcelain glass fell to the floor and cracked into three pieces. 

“This is for Cheltenham,” the man announced, approaching her with long strides and grabbing her roughly by the arm. “We’re just taking back what’s ours.” 

“I really don’t—I really don’t know what’s going on,” she lied. “Please.” 

“I saw you there,” the man replied, leering over her before shoving her back down to the floor. “But you didn’t see me, did you? You didn’t see when your Peaky Blinder friend pulled my  _ fucking ear off!  _ Didn’t see that, did you?” He pointed to the bandage wrapped across his head. Trixie had not, in fact, seen that, and she was quite grateful for that. But she felt like that was not the answer he wanted, and so she chose to stay quiet. “Pretty silver dress, hm? Meanwhile your fucking husband, and his fucking gang, were stealing from us. Acting like a bunch of fucking  _ savages.”  _

He held his knife close to her throat, and then dragged the blade up so it skimmed the side of her face. “You’re pretty, aren’t you? Think you’d be so pretty if I decided to take one of your eyes?” 

Trixie’s heart kicked in her chest and she pushed back, scrambling to get away from him. “Please,” she said. “I—I didn’t know, I was just going to the races with my husband, I didn’t know.” 

The man leaned in closer, his knife skidding back down to her mouth and pressing down on her bottom lip. “Stop lying to me, or I’ll cut your fucking tongue out, too.” 

When he pulled the blade back, the tip was stained red, but Trixie wasn’t sure if it was her lipstick or her blood. The man pushed her sloppily down onto the floor and stepped over her, clicking his tongue. 

“There’s money everywhere,” he barked, signaling to the others. “Take everything you can find.” 

Scudboat grunted beside her as he, too, was tossed to the ground. Trixie had been so focused on her own peril that she hadn’t noticed how badly the Lees were beating him—his eyes were both swollen red and pulpy, his lip was split, and he was bowled over, clutching at their ribs. Peaky Blinders were tough, Peaky Blinders defied death, but that didn’t mean they didn’t suffer along the way. And even with decades of fighting under his belt, Scudboat had been outnumbered by six. 

Trixie watched helplessly as the Lees began raiding the cabinets. Some of their reserves were still nailed under the floorboards, a safety measure she’d instilled after Campbell’s raids, but if the Lees stole everything else it would hardly do any good. This could ruin them—if all the men who had placed bets today came away empty handed, they ran the risk of losing the city’s trust for good. 

They rifled through the shop violently, so different from the behavior she was used to with Tommy. It wasn’t that he was particularly calm or friendly, but Tommy’s danger was always a warning for something far crueller. That was what set him apart—his potential. Whatever he did was restrained, and pushing him ran the risk of unleashing whatever violence he was choosing to keep quiet. There was no rhyme or reason to the way that the Lees raided the shop, overturning tables and kicking paperwork aside. Their mission was singular: reclaim the money the other Peaky Blinders had stolen—and which they had technically stolen from Billy Kimber, but Trixie was hardly rushing to his defense at this moment. 

If only she’d figured out how to shoot by now. It probably wouldn’t have done much, but she wouldn’t be so helpless if she had something besides heels and a fake wedding ring at hand. Trixie balled her hands into fists at her sides and watched as the Lees threw chests around and rifled through them. They moved quickly, though not as quickly as they could’ve been if they were more efficient. She wondered, vaguely, how they’d managed to get into the shop—after all, Scudboat had locked the doors. She’d watched him. And while they’d kicked down the door to the parlor itself, that didn’t explain how they’d gotten into the building through the Watery Lane entrance. 

As they poured cases of change into their bags, the Lees began to laugh with each other. “Seven bags,” the one with the knife announced. “Consider the extra two an inconvenience fee.” 

Trixie said nothing, and he dropped both the bags in his arms to the floor. They landed heavily, coins jangling inside. 

“You gonna say anything?” he asked. “Had such a mouth earlier.” Brandishing his knife, he knelt down onto the floor and traced the point of his dagger along the swell of Trixie’s cheek. “Tell Tommy he better fetch the wire cutters, eh?” 

With all the suddenness of an alarm siren, he pushed the blade into her cheek and slashed against the bone. Immediately, her face felt hot from the spill of blood. Trixie lifted her hand to the stinging wound, reeling from the abrupt attack and watching as the Lees retreated the way they’d come, money in hand. 

For a long moment, Trixie still couldn’t move. If she pulled her hand from her face, she’d have to look at the blood, and then she’d have to do something about that, and that was too great a task at this exact second. So she just watched as the front door swung shut and then looked over at Scudboat. He wouldn’t be much help as he was with his face swollen up like a balloon. 

“I’ll get help,” Trixie said. “I’ll—get—I’ll get Tommy.” 

Still with her hand to her face, she pushed herself off the ground, avoiding the mirror in the entryway and stepping outside. Finn sat to the side of the door, his hands over his eyes, hidden. “Trixie!” he exclaimed. “You look like a monster.” 

“You know where Tommy is?” she asked, ignoring the comment about the cut. “He’s at the Garrison, Finn. I want you to go get him, and tell him that we’ve been fucked over. But don’t say fuck, alright? Just tell him we’ve been robbed.” 

He nodded, already standing up from the cobblestone and sprinting off towards the pub. Trixie slunk back inside, slid down to the floor, and did her best not to let the headache knock her out. 

* * *

When Finn had burst into the Shelbys’ private pocket of the Garrison, Tommy was relieved to have a way out of John’s wedding plans. Lizzie Stark, marrying into the Shelby empire? She offered nothing to them, personally or politically, beyond the professional capacity in which the two were already acquainted—and that certainly was out of the question if she were to marry his younger brother. 

But Finn’s news was worse than John’s. Tommy’s first thought was about the money from the bets, which was logical enough, but trailing immediately behind it was just one word:  _ Beatrice.  _ Less logical, certainly, and not worth dwelling on. The Shelbys stormed out of the shop in a hurry, and by the time they’d crossed the streets to their home, the caravan he’d noticed earlier had departed.  _ Lees.  _

“Scudboat?” he called, pushing the door open and inspecting the room, one hand still on his gun. 

“He’s here,” said Beatrice. “He’s in poor shape at this particular moment.” 

Arthur pushed past him then, barreling through the shop to inspect the damage, and John soon followed. But Tommy and Poll stood patiently in the living room, assessing things with as much detail as they could. 

In the end, though, there were no details. “Fucking  _ Christ!”  _ John shouted, kicking over a stack of abandoned papers in the office. “They took fucking everything.” 

“Some of it’s stashed below the floorboards,” Beatrice offered. She was knelt at Scudboat’s side, her own face leaking blood. “They didn’t take that. They did, however, take seven full bags of money. So.” 

Tommy nodded slowly and took a moment to inspect her face. Compared to Scudboat, Beatrice had come out of their encounter with the Lees relatively unscathed, save for the cut on her cheek that would most certainly scar. Wordlessly, he removed his handkerchief from his pocket. 

Beatrice reached out to take it from him, but he bypassed her, cradling the back of her head gently in one hand and using the other to dab at the blood. 

“Oh,” she said, the word falling out of her mouth before she could stop it. Tommy wished she wasn’t so lovely. Perhaps that was the wrong thing to want—maybe he should’ve wished that he didn’t find her lovely, but her face was a mix of incredulity, surprise, and spite, stained in blood, and he couldn’t help remembering what she’d confessed to him in the car.  _ We’re so alike.  _ “I’m alright.” 

“Arthur,” Tommy ordered, holding his hand out. His older brother was quick to deposit a bottle of whiskey in it, and Tommy poured some of it onto the handkerchief. “It’ll burn,” he said. 

“I’ll live,” Beatrice retorted. 

With a shrug, he dabbed the alcohol-drenched chief against the wound. She hissed, but she didn’t flinch, just glowered at him as if he’d been the one to cut her. Hell, maybe she did blame him. She wouldn’t be entirely wrong. “Alright?” he asked. 

“Could be better,” she replied. “Is it bad? Finn said I look like a monster.” 

Maybe earlier, when the blood had been smeared across her cheek. Now, she just looked like one of them. If anything, the cut made it harder to pull his eyes from her, even more difficult than usual. How had a woman like her ended up with a scar like that?  _ Me.  _ That was how. “It’ll heal,” he said, running his thumb along the curve of it.  _ It’ll scar _ , he thought, but kept that to himself. 

“He left me a message for you,” Beatrice said, shifting awkwardly away from him. 

“What’s what?”

“He said you better fetch the wire cutters.” 

Tommy’s hand stilled on her face. “Wire cutters?” 

“Wire cutters?” Poll repeated. “Why would they want you to fetch wire cutters?” 

Arthur already beat him to it. “Nobody move,” he ordered, and Beatrice seemed to grow even more petrified. Her eyes were wild when they met his, but Tommy was already trying to work out where they may have hidden a bomb meant for him. 

“I think our friends are playing the game,” he remarked—surely enough, a quick inspection found a pair of wire cutters sitting atop the bureau. He abandoned Beatrice and carefully lifted them up. The damn things were shiny and good as new—those fucking Lees. 

“What game?” Polly demanded, marching across the room. 

“Aunt Poll, don’t touch anything!” John shouted, sticking out a hand to physically stop his aunt. 

“What the hell,” said Trixie, “is fucking happening.” 

“Erasmus Lee was in France,” Tommy explained. 

Scudboat put it together instantly. “ _ Shit.”  _

Beatrice had not been in France, and so she just craned her neck towards him and silently demanded an answer. 

“When we gave up ground to the Germans, we’d leave behind booby traps. Set up wires,” Tommy continued. “And we’d leave wire cutters as part of the joke.” 

“Somewhere in here, there’s a hand grenade,” said John. 

“Holy Jesus,” said Polly, at the exact same moment that Tommy heard Beatrice mutter, “Oh Jesus bloody Christ.” 

“Attached to a wire,” Arthur continued. “Don’t move any chairs or open any doors.” 

“I didn’t see them set it,” Beatrice interrupted. “I didn’t see everything—I won’t pretend I did, but I was watching them and they were far too focused on getting the money and leaving than they were setting traps.” 

“You think they might be fucking with us?” John asked. 

Tommy did not underestimate their hatred towards him, and so he shook his head. “They didn’t send a bullet with my name on it for nothing.” But it had been a bullet with his name—not Shelby. Thomas Shelby. They weren’t trying to kill John, or Arthur, or Polly, or Beatrice. They were trying to kill him. 

Where would he go where others wouldn’t follow? 

“The car,” he said. “If it was in here, it would’ve gone off by now. But the car—nobody else drives the car.” 

Arthur was the first to run, but Tommy shoved past him once they were on the street. He had a steadier hand, and he was holding the cutters. This was routine, disarming a bomb, and not the kind of skill a man forgot after learning, even if he tried. 

Except Finn was in the fucking front seat. 

Which meant that this was completely new territory. 

By some miracle, he’d climbed through the window without setting the fucking thing off, but he was, like any eleven-year-old boy, restless and impossible to contain. “Finn?” he called, keeping his voice level. Tommy Shelby rarely panicked, but the prospect of his baby brother being blown to bits in front of him would do it. “Finn, stay exactly where you are.” 

Finn put both hands on the steering wheel and pretended to turn it. Tommy gritted his teeth. “I was pretending I was you,” said his brother with a giggle. 

An awful thing to hear, but no time to dwell. “Which door did you open to come in, Finn?” 

“I didn’t,” his brother replied. “I climbed in.” 

Taking slow steps towards the car, Tommy instructed, “I want you to climb out exactly the way you climbed in, okay?” 

Finn was still smiling, and Tommy wanted to shout at him that if he didn’t follow his directions very clearly he might be killed, but reasoning with a crying child would undoubtedly prove more difficult, and the risk of Finn thrashing in his panic was far too great to be worth it. So Tommy would remain calm, and he would get Finn out of here safely. 

Except, Finn had other plans. With a giggle, he lunged for the passenger side of the car, and that’s when Tommy saw the grenade. He launched himself into the carriage, seized it, and wound up a throw. “ _ Clear!”  _ he shouted, hurling the grenade as far across the street as he could. It went off as it landed, exploding in one of the fires and eliciting screams from the pedestrians. When he turned to his brother, Finn was already being tended to by Beatrice, who cradled him to her chest like a baby. He sobbed into her shoulder and she hushed him kindly, before Tommy reached over for him, yanking him back down to the ground. 

In his shock, Finn stopped crying. Tommy grabbed his chin roughly and knelt down to his level. “That’s why you should  _ never  _ pretend to be me,” he commanded. “Got it?” 

Finn nodded, his face red and splotchy from the tears. 

Somehow, Tommy didn’t quite believe him. 

* * *

Much to Polly’s chagrin, Trixie had immediately promised candy to Finn. 

“Are we  _ rewarding  _ him for nearly getting himself blown to pieces?” she squawked, pulling the cigarette from her mouth in disbelief. 

They were several paces behind the boy now, walking along the river as he alternated between placing pieces of chocolate in his mouth and throwing their shiny foil wrappers to the birds. “He didn’t know,” Trixie said. Finn had just been behaving as a child—it was their fault for putting a child into such an environment, and maybe her fault for not watching him more closely while the rest of the Shelbys had left the betting shop. “He’s only eleven, let him be a child for a bit longer.” 

“There’s no room in this city for children. He’ll have to grow up eventually,” said Polly. 

Trixie sighed. She was right, of course—she was always right, but Finn was the last innocent Shelby, as far as she was concerned, and she would hate to see that destroyed. “Eventually,” she conceded. “Not yet.” Finn laughed as a swarm of pigeons descended near him to pick up the small foils he was littering the street with. His tears had stopped a while ago, when they’d arrived at the candy store, but his eyes were still a bit puffy, and his face a bit red. It felt almost indecent then for Trixie to turn to Polly and ask, “I need to learn to shoot a gun.” 

Polly sighed and gave her a knowing look. “I knew you’d come around.” 

“It’s just a lot all at once,” Trixie said, the itch to defend herself irresistible. “Campbell had his men kidnap me and bring me to a  _ Church,  _ and then Kimber was trying to seduce me because he’d never been with  _ my kind of woman  _ before, and then the Lees.” She reached up to her face and drew her thumb along the line of the scar. Tommy had bandaged it when they returned to the shop, though he’d done a bit of a sloppy job with the tape. It no longer hurt unless she pressed it, but Trixie dreaded having to look at it in the mirror when she removed the patch-up for her bath. 

“Kimber tried to  _ seduce you?”  _ Polly asked. 

“Yeah.” 

“And you said no?” 

Trixie made a face. “Well  _ obviously.  _ I wasn’t going to lose my virginity to that toad of a man on a Billiards table with his wife and Tommy in the next room.” 

Polly laughed, and then said, “I guess that explains what he told Tommy after.” 

What he told Tommy? “What did he say?” 

Polly took a drag of her cigarette, slow and deliberate in a way that telegraphed that her news would not be good. “He said he doesn’t trust you and doesn’t want you managing his account.” 

Trixie blinked. “You’re joking.” 

“Business is too lucrative to joke about.” 

“Shit,” she said, looking out at the canal. She wanted very suddenly to hit something, or maybe scream. Of course Kimber had fucked her over. “Why didn’t Tommy tell me?” 

“It’s fine,” Polly said. “We’re going to have you keep with the rest of what you’re doing, and spend afternoons at the Garrison.” 

“Kimber’s our biggest account.” 

“Since when have you been in favor of the expansion?” Polly asked. 

“Since when have  _ you?”  _ Trixie returned. 

The two women spent a long minute staring each other down. Polly had been against the expansion since the start, Trixie had always been a bystander. Soon she’d be even less. If anyone had taken more of a pivot, it had been Polly, though everyone capitulated to Tommy sooner or later. Their moment broke only when Finn shouted, “ _ Ah!”  _

Trixie started, immediately worrying that he’d fallen into the cut, but when she turned she found that he was just wrenching the paper bag of sweets away from a rather aggressive pigeon. 

“Stop feeding them, Finn,” Polly ordered. “We didn’t buy candy for the birds, we bought candy for you.” She glanced at Trixie. “Well, Trixie did, at least.” 

“We’re getting off-topic,” Trixie said. “Tommy got me a gun, but I don’t know how to shoot, and I have no bullets.” 

“Well we’ve plenty of bullets,” Polly dismissed. “Sometimes I find them in the pots and pans. You’ll need to make a trip to the countryside if you want to learn to shoot.” 

“Never a problem with me,” she said. 

Polly sighed. “I can have John take you then, alright? Tommy hates lending him the car, but he’ll have to deal with it. I’ll keep him busy with the work you should be doing.” 

At his name, Trixie remembered the news John had mentioned earlier. Finding out what it was had been swiftly out-prioritized by everything else that had happened in the day, but if she didn’t ask it would gnaw at her. “Did John tell you what the news was? He was supposed to tell me after you got back but I forgot to ask.” 

Polly snorted. “Says he’s getting married.” 

Trixie’s eyes widened into saucers. “ _ John?”  _

“For his kids, he says,” said Polly. “Though, if I was thinking of the children, I wouldn’t have chosen Lizzie Stark.” Trixie had not heard the name before, and Polly seemed to notice her confusion, so she elaborated, “Lizzie Stark is a whore. I doubt she knows a thing about children.” 

“Oh,” Trixie said. She’d never met a prostitute, never talked to one, but she knew plenty of men who solicited their services. Mostly, the news made her remember Martha. She’d kept to herself when they knew each other, busy raising John’s children—three before the war, and one after—but she’d succumbed to the Consumption, same as Trixie’s father. The children she left behind busied themselves playing with Finn and wreaking havoc on the shops of Small Heath through petty theft and vandalism. If she’d lived, Trixie may have befriended her. She was certainly spirited before she’d grown ill and tired from the labor of motherhood, attracting John’s attention by beating him in a fight when they were teenagers, but that vivacity had been dampened in the wake of war. If John was marrying for the sake of the children, it was probably for the best, given his lack of interest in raising his children. 

But she didn’t know Lizzie Stark. While Trixie didn’t put much weight in Polly’s assessment—the Shelbys were always wary of outsiders, and in the wake of a woman like Martha, it was difficult to compete—she had learned to regard strangers with caution before she got to know them. She’d ask John next time they saw each other, then, what kind of a person Lizzie Stark was. 

“Looks like all the Shelbys are settling down,” Trixie said. “Who’s next? Arthur?” 

“I’m doubtful Arthur will ever find a woman able to tolerate him.” 

“I’d say the same about Tommy, but I’ve become that woman, apparently.” 

Polly gave her a sly grin. “It’ll be over soon, god willing.” 

Trixie smiled, but felt the pit of dread in her stomach nonetheless. It would be over, but so would everything else: days by the docks, talks like this with Polly, work with John. She’d have to start over completely, emerge from Birmingham like she’d come from a second baptism, though this one by fire. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go with episode 4! This chapter was a lot of fun to write, I’m poking myself for the title shoutout at the end lol. Tommy?? Caring?? Maybe! Trixie?? Caring?? Perhaps…
> 
> Thank you so much to macademlik, JMBH, lmenin, cdsnowbarger, Anon, trixareforeveryone, and missingartist for the comments on the last chapter, I’m so grateful for all the feedback! We’re officially halfway through this story, and things are only going to get more intense from here. Let me know what you thought of this chapter if you feel so inclined <3
> 
> **Chapter 17 /**  
>  _Baby Shot Me Down_
> 
> “What the bloody fuck do you think you’re doing?” Trixie demanded, watching in horror as Curly dragged her bookshelf through the front door. Tommy offered her a cigarette, raising his eyebrows nonchalantly. Trixie smacked his hand away. “Tell me what’s happening.” 
> 
> He sighed, and took the cigarette for himself. “Better dig out that pretty silver dress. We’re getting married this weekend, Beatrice.”


	18. Baby Shot Me Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listen to this chapter’s soundtrack [here.](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/34OocBGbmPoqUu3UE9myTH?si=6mMRQ_vsQa67-rqZCMTcGg)

_ “Whoever sheds the blood of man, by man shall his blood be shed, for God made man in his own image.”  _ —Genesis 9:6

Tommy Shelby went to the war, and something else came back. Trixie understood that, as well as one could understand the night sky while still living lightyears away from the stars. She hadn’t been in France—and those who she knew, she knew in singularity. Luca was before: he had gone to war and he hadn’t come back. Tommy was after, so dead now that she struggled to imagine him as having ever been a boy. 

Without going to the moon, one can only know so much about what the moon is like. It shapeshifts and disappears, it rises and sets. Trixie could imagine the war as much as she pleased, but she didn’t know anything until the day in the woods, and even then, she was living in terms of approximations. Trixie had left John with Birmingham that morning, same as she’d ever been, and they’d driven an hour out to the Midlands before pulling off near a clearing in the woods. 

For the entirety of the drive, the gun had rested on Trixie’s lap, heavy like a paperweight, wrapped in a gingham cheesecloth as if the two of them were off to the countryside for a picnic and not something inconceivably worse. Trixie had been avoiding looking at it. 

It was rather silly, wasn’t it? She had been the one to initiate this trip, and had done so for the express purpose of learning to shoot a gun. The rest of the Peaky Blinders handled their weapons with such ease: John and Arthur waved their guns around as carelessly as if they were pencils. But now that she was actually an hour out from the city, Trixie could suddenly think of nothing but her father. 

_ “Be kind to the women you see today, Trixie,”  _ he’d said, every day without fail since the drafts had begun. “ _ Their husbands and brothers and fathers and sons are off fighting, and war is a beast that devours.”  _

Devours lives. Devours souls. Devours men, killing the lucky ones and spitting the rest out. Guns had done that, and a gun in her hand could do exactly the same. There was no war—not in the sense of treaties and kings and armies, but there were certainly soldiers, even if their uniforms were peaked caps instead of helmets, even if their empire was a racetrack and not a continent. This was her enlistment. 

“Trix,” John said. “Are we going or not?” 

She glanced over at him, and noticed that he’d turned the car off. “We’re going,” she said, forcing the words out of her mouth in spite of their weight. Trixie unbuckled her seatbelt and tucked the gun gently under her arm so she could get out of the car. 

As John slammed the door and headed to the boot, where he dug out a burlap sack of bottles. The noise they made as he jostled them was a menace. Trixie grabbed onto the picnic basket of sandwiches she’d brought them, including tea for her and whiskey for him, and made quick work following. 

“You seem nervous,” John remarked. “You nervous, Trixie?” 

“I’m not nervous,” she lied. “I’m just careful.” 

He laughed. “Sounds like the same thing.” 

“It’s not,” said Trixie. And it wasn’t, not really. Nervous and careful were different animals, she was just lying about which happened to possess her. 

In the clearing, he arranged the glass bottles in a line across an abandoned tree trunk. “About as high as a man’s stomach,” he explained. “You wanna aim for the torso if you have to shoot. Tommy says you’ll never have to kill someone.” 

“Tommy said that,” Trixie deadpanned. “Is that to care for my dainty, feminine constitution, or does he not think I’m capable?” 

John sent her a boyish grin, and Trixie found herself imagining what he’d been like before the war, too. Probably the same, but maybe a little more sober. “Do you want to kill someone?” 

Trixie shrugged. “Sometimes. Depends on the person, really.” 

He held out his hand for her gun, and Trixie passed it over. “Don’t get too trigger happy,” he instructed, loading the bullets into the chamber. “Can’t have you roaming the streets of Birmingham like a cowboy with a vengeance.” 

“Don’t think the hat would suit me, anyway,” said Trixie. “If I learn to use the gun, do I get one of my own of those?” she asked, pointing to John’s flatcap. “With the razors.” 

“They’re for the boys. Wouldn’t look good on you. anyway.” 

“Why not?” she asked, pitching her face up in mock-offense. “My hair’s short, anyway. I’d look better than some of the men.” After a beat, she added, “By that I mean Arthur.” 

“Don’t let him hear you say that,” said John. “Not until you’ve learned how to use this thing, at least.” He passed the gun back to her and she weighed it carefully in her hands. It felt heavier.  _ Much  _ heavier. More than the sum of the bullet and the revolver combined. 

“Why’d they cut it so high up?” Trixie asked. “The tree, I mean.” 

John shrugged. “Maybe it’d rotted.” 

_ This certainly won’t help,  _ Trixie couldn’t help but think. “Is this how you learned?” 

John pulled his own gun from his belt, though it was already loaded. “Nah. Poll taught us boys in an alleyway, had us shoot at a scarecrow. I was good, yeah? Better than Arthur. But Tommy—Jesus.” 

“What about Tommy?” Trixie said. 

Shaking his head, he spun the chamber of his revolver around once, and it clicked as it went. “Tommy got the damn thing on the head his first try. Like he was made for it.” 

“Nobody’s made for it,” Trixie objected, and then caught herself.  _ Nobody’s made for killing. Not that fast, not that easily.  _ No  _ man _ was made for it, maybe, but then again—Tommy Shelby didn’t think himself a man. 

He had to have been once, though, before he’d been shipped off to the trenches. Somewhere in the past, Tommy Shelby had been in love with a girl named Greta Jurossi, and he needed a heart for that. John had called him a lothario, said he could’ve changed for the better—now, he was as lost as lost could be. 

“Do you know Greta Jurossi?” she asked, fiddling with the chamber of her own gun and feigning nonchalance. “Tommy mentioned her, from bef—” 

“Before the war,” John said. “Yeah, I knew her. How do  _ you _ know?” 

“He told me,” Trixie replied, suddenly ashamed that she was picking at this scab. “He said she got sick and died, but that he’d loved her.” 

John sighed, and began loading and unloading the bullets from inside his gun. “She was a Communist, actually. She and Freddie Thorne were in the same year as Tommy in school, before he dropped out. She had a sister, I think, Kitty, but I don’t know what happened to her after the war.” 

“Oh,” said Trixie. “He was happy with her, was he?” 

She knew what she was asking. Judging by the look on John’s face, he understood, but Trixie didn’t bother disputing it. They’d known each other long enough now to trust in the other’s discretion. “He was happier, in general. Kind of man who—fuck, I don’t know. He’d save up money to buy her flowers. Charmed her parents, even though they hated us Small Heath boys. Used to believe in something.” He sighed. “All that’s gone now, though.” 

“Yeah,” Trixie remarked. “Do you actually think we would’ve gotten along if we’d met before the war?” 

John tugged on the hem of his jacket. “Maybe.” Then, “Can I be honest?” 

“With me? Always.” 

“I think he likes you now. I think you interest him. I know this whole—this whole thing with the engagement is about those bloody coppers and those fucking guns, but for Christ’s sake, Trix, you’re wearing our mother’s ring.” 

“I’m  _ what?”  _ said Trixie, nearly dropping the gun in the hurry to inspect her hands. 

“Jesus!” John hissed, pulling the weapon away from her. “It’s fucking loaded, you’re gonna shoot yourself in the foot.” 

“I’m wearing—your  _ mother’s wedding ring?”  _

John nodded, pointing at her finger. “Where else would that have come from?” 

“I don’t know!” she cried. “I don’t understand why he’s giving me an heirloom ring one minute and buying me out of the company the next.” 

Nobody said anything for a long moment, and Trixie almost didn’t realize why. “He’s buying you out?” 

Trixie sighed. “Look, he said I can come back to visit, he just—doesn’t want me in the way anymore, I guess. Said he’d find me a house somewhere out here, and uh. Yeah, just doesn’t want me coming back.” 

“I’m gonna fucking kill him,” John muttered. 

“Wait—” 

“I’m gonna  _ fucking  _ kill him!” he shouted, kicking one of the unused bottles across the clearing so hard that it shattered against the tree trunk. “You’re the best fucking accountant we have. He’s always preaching to  _ us _ about business—business before the Pub, business before the kids, business before sex. And he can’t get over himself long enough to—” John gritted his teeth. 

“Maybe the ring was a consolation prize,” Trixie offered pathetically. “I knew he didn’t like me anyway, John, it’s fine.” 

“It’s  _ not  _ fucking fine, Trix. He can’t do this to you.” 

“He’s offering me more than enough in return.” 

“He can’t do this to  _ us,”  _ he clarified. “You’re not going anywhere.” 

Trixie sighed. “It’ll be alright,” she said. “I’ll  _ make it  _ be alright.” 

John gritted his teeth. “Have you told Polly?” She shook her head. “Polly’s the only person who’ll tell Tommy what to do, but you’re the closest second I’ve ever seen.” 

“I know,” said Trixie, even if she didn’t quite believe it. “Now could you hand me my gun?” 

* * *

Beatrice Price went into the woods that morning, and something else came back. Something pushed up against the threshold diving man from more. Something that understood how men could break like bones and heal wrong. Trixie had still never been to the moon, but she had seen it up close through a telescope and memorized its face. 

The first several bullets had been misses, getting ever closer to the glass bottles on the horizon. The bullets rocketed out of the barrel, the ensuing snap louder than she’d ever imagined it being. They’d breaked for lunch without a single hit, and by the time she got back, she was still distracted by the ring on her finger. 

Trixie huffed, dropping her gun and pulling the thing off. She tossed it into the picnic basket and stifled any worries of scuffing it. None of that mattered right now. 

When she lifted the gun back up, Trixie did not feel human. And this arm of hers—elbow to wrist to trigger—did not feel human either. She had come to the boundary of what mankind was made to be capable of, her back to her father, her back to her mother, her back to all the dead boys who had left for war and never come back. If they called, she couldn’t hear them. In the glass of the bottles ahead, she could make out the Peaky Blinders’ kingdom, their crowns and their power. It was easier to understand how Tommy could think himself God when she bore the weight of something like this. Elbow, wrist, trigger,  _ bang.  _ She winked one eye shut and zeroed in on the target. 

“What’s wrong?” John badgered. “You wanna be a fuckin’ Peaky, you gotta learn to shoot, Trix. You can’t be chickenshit.” 

Elbow, wrist, trigger. Men weren’t made for destruction like this—neither inflicting nor enduring. Killing had been around since Cain, yeah, but nothing killed quite like a gun. 

_ You can’t be chickenshit.  _ Trixie squinted at the line of bottles. Elbow, wrist, trigger, bang. She squeezed the gun to remind herself where her own hand stopped and the weapon started, only to squeeze to hard and send the damn thing firing. Elbow. Wrist. Trigger. 

_ Bang.  _

The bullet flew forward, slicing through one of the bottles in the line and shattering it. Trixie forced her eyes to stay open, to watch as it tore through the glass and sent it flying back in pieces. She fired again. The bullet hit the next bottle over. Trixie imagined that it was Billy Kimber, imagined that blood might spatter across the other clearing, imagined him collapsing backwards, dead. 

“I’m not chickenshit,” she said, mostly to herself. 

“No,” said John. “You’re not.” 

So she shot down the bottles, and fought to keep her hand steady. When all the glass had been sent to pieces, and John had gotten bored of trying to shoot the birds down from trees, they’d returned to the car and begun the journey home. 

“You’re getting married,” Trixie said, once they were on the road. 

John coughed on the whiskey he was sipping from his flask, and Trixie snatched it away from him to screw the cap back on. She would’ve felt bad if he’d remembered to tell her the news himself, but maybe it was better this way. Maybe she could use it to distract him from her approaching departure. “Polly?” he asked, like he already knew the answer. 

“Polly,” Trixie confirmed. “But only because you forgot.”

“I didn’t forget,” John said. “I’m just...having second thoughts, is all.” 

Trixie fiddled with her own ring—well, Tommy’s ring, below the cheesecloth covering the basket. “Second thoughts?”

John shrugged, pressing hard down onto the gas and letting up intermittently. Some part of him looked woefully ashamed. “Polly and Tommy are against it,” he said. “And—I know it’s not their marriage, and  _ fuck  _ Tommy for what he’s doing to you, but I can’t help wondering if they’re right.” 

“Right about?” 

“Right about Lizzie.” 

“Oh,” Trixie said, dropping the ring. “John, it’s not bad that she’s been a prostitute. As long as she’s kind and can care for the children. And she’d—she’d stop working, yeah?” 

“She would, yeah,” said John. “Poll says I shouldn’t let a whore near the children.” 

“She said that?” Trixie squawked. “Are you joking?”

“Not joking.” 

Trixie sighed. “Well, I know she loved Martha. I know  _ you  _ loved Martha.” She sighed. “But you know you can’t replace her, and you’re not trying to. The kids need someone to take care of them, John, and you’re not gonna do it, are you?” 

He hesitated. There was a correct answer here and they both knew it, and they both knew it wasn’t the truth. He shook his head. “No,” he said. “No, I’m not gonna.”

“Lizzie Stark would be something,” Trixie said. “If she can fix them lunch and tuck them into bed, that’s better than letting them run feral in the streets.” 

“Oi!” John objected, looking over at her incredulously. “Are you calling my kids feral?” 

“Are you going to call them well-behaved?” Trixie countered. “It’s not their fault. They’ve been left to their own devices. You haven’t even signed them up for school yet. They’re gonna spend every day playing by the Cut until they get pistols of their own.”

He waved her away. “They’re kids!” 

“Is that what kids are supposed to do!” 

“Lizzie’ll want them to go to school, anyway,” John said. “She’s been trying to do a typing course. She wants to become a secretary. I offered to help her pay for it.” 

“Good man,” Trixie commended, patting John gently on the shoulder. “So she’s got aspirations. That’s good. She’ll be a good example.” Then, gently, she added, “Your kids are a menace, John, but I’m sure she’s seen worse.” 

“You think?” John asked. “You’re not fucking with me, right?” 

“I’m not,” Trixie promised. “I wouldn’t.” 

For the remainder of the ride back, Trixie tried to make sense of the ring, though her mind kept drifting back to a world where she’d known Tommy before the war. Maybe if she’d gone to school, she would’ve met him sooner. Maybe if her father preached at St. Catherine’s, instead. Maybe Tommy would save up to buy her flowers, and laugh when he was happy, and care about her as more than just a legal bargaining chip. If they made it, he’d ask her to marry him for real, give her the same ring for real. Maybe life would be the exact same, with less pretending. 

But there was no point in dwelling on it. Trixie watched the trees go by and thought about how satisfying it would be to kill Campbell. So satisfying, and just as easy, now. She could set up a meeting with him and take out her gun before he even knew what was happening. She could kill him  _ tonight,  _ if she wanted to. 

And she wanted to. But she wouldn’t. They didn’t need a dead Crown Agent bringing more attention to the city. 

The itch to pull the trigger again was tempting, but useless if not dangerous. She’d take a bath with the rose salts instead, maybe, and finish the last few chapters of  _ Wuthering Heights.  _

“The fuck’s happening here?” John muttered, honking at a string of cars blocking the front of her apartment. Trixie leaned forward, trying to see around him if there was any explanation of the ruckus. 

“Is that my chair?” Trixie asked, watching one of the men on the sidewalk lugging the furniture towards a nearby caravan. “That’s—am I being  _ robbed?”  _

“Hold on a second,” John ordered, stopping the car in the middle of the road with a  _ screech.  _ He shoved the door open and climbed out, strutting up to the building. 

She hadn’t learned how to shoot just to be left behind. Trixie followed, slamming her own door behind her, picnic basket in hand. She chased John up the steps, watching as men—men she  _ recognized— _ hauled crates and furniture out of her apartment. “Hey!” she objected, but the men didn’t listen. 

At the top of the stairs, she collided straight with Tommy’s shoulder. “Beatrice,” he greeted. 

“What the bloody  _ fuck  _ do you think you’re doing?” she asked, watching as Curly dragged her bookshelf through the front door.  Tommy offered her a cigarette, raising his eyebrows nonchalantly. Trixie smacked his hand away. “Tell me what’s happening.” 

He sighed, and took the cigarette for himself. “Better dig out that pretty silver dress. We’re getting married this weekend, Beatrice.” 

Trixie blinked at him and then laughed, waiting for him to confirm that he’d suddenly developed a twisted sense of humor. “Like  _ hell  _ we are,” she objected. “This was not part of the deal,” she muttered, taking a step closer and cornering him. 

Tommy could threaten her all he wanted, and he could buy her out, and he could ruin her fucking  _ life,  _ but she would not marry him in the aftermath of it all. “What I say goes,” he reminded her. 

She stared at him, mouth open, and before she knew what she was doing, Trixie raised her hand and slapped him across the face. “Don’t you fucking talk to me like that.” 

He took her hand gently in his. Trixie wanted to push him down the stairs, but she knew that would likely get her killed, too, or at least send Birmingham into unrest. “I will explain, alright? But not here. Your neighbor’s been by enough times, he’s looking for a reason to make our life more difficult.” 

“There is no  _ our life _ ,” Trixie hissed, trembling from the effort of keeping her voice low. “You bought me out, didn’t you? There’s Thomas Shelby, and there’s the rest of the world. I like where I’m standing, and I’ve no interest in switching sides.” 

Tommy took a deep breath. “Beatrice, I promise you that I will explain. And if you want to leave, I will let you leave. But you cannot be living with a copper next door, under Campbell’s thumb.” 

“What happened to the Lees?” she asked. 

“I will explain,” Tommy reiterated. 

“And what if I don’t like your explanation?” 

“Then I’ll buy you the bloody house today, alright? I’ll get you out of here.” 

He seemed so confident that his explanation would satisfy; Trixie almost wanted to make a scene just out of spite. Instead, she inhaled slowly. “You’re going to drive me to your house right now, and you’re going to explain what’s going on. And if you don’t, I’m going to take the loaded gun in this picnic basket and start shooting.” 

Trixie could tell that Tommy was analyzing her, trying to gauge how serious she was, but even she wasn’t sure if it was a bluff. “Alright,” he said. “I’ll get the keys from John.” 

* * *

When they were back at Watery Lane, Tommy unlocked the door for Trixie and then stood dumbly in the living room. “Tea?” he offered, for no apparent reason. 

“I don’t want tea,” she snapped. “I want to know what the fuck’s going on.” 

“Upstairs,” he said, gesturing towards the staircase with a nod. Trixie followed begrudgingly, maintaining the white-knuckled grip on her picnic basket as she ascended. It didn’t surprise her when Tommy led her to his room, but it did feel odd, and she felt out of place. Maybe that was why he’d brought her here—she’d be more pliant to his news if she was already caught off-guard. 

Well, if he  _ had  _ done it to make some kind of assertion, Trixie would have none of it. She sat down on his bed as if it were her own and waited. 

“I had a meeting with Campbell today,” he shared. “Considering what happened in the Church. It’s come to my attention that you’re not safe under his surveillance.” 

Trixie rolled her eyes. “Of course I’m not. We knew that. In the best case scenario, he thinks you’re in love with me, and in the worst case scenario, he knows that I’ve been fucking lying to him.” 

“I need you safe, though, Beatrice,” Tommy snapped. He raked a hand through his hair. “Listen to me. That—that  _ Copper  _ had promised me that you will pay if I break another deal with him. Understand?” 

She blinked. “I’ve heard. But I thought you were taking care of it.” 

“This is how I’m taking care of it.” 

“How is a wedding going to help things?” she demanded. 

“If you live under this roof, I can protect you. But you won’t live with me unless you marry me.” 

“But I won’t  _ marry you.”  _

“And you won’t,” said Tommy. “Not really. We’ll burn the papers before they’re ever filed. But Campbell knows that you are the daughter of a priest, and he knows you won’t live here unless it’s under the right conditions.  _ These  _ are the right conditions.” 

Trixie wanted to insult him, or slap him again, or flat-out refuse, but he was right and she knew it. One gun was better than nothing, and this house had at least six. Still. She couldn’t let it go without being difficult. “I’m not sleeping with you,” she said. “Your bed is too small.” 

He arched an eyebrow, and she realized the double meaning of her words. Trixie jutted her chin up, determined to appear fearless. “I know,” he said. “We’ll make up Ada’s room for you. It’s bigger. Nice window. You can read her copy of  _ Das Kapital,  _ if you like.” 

The annoying part was that she  _ would  _ like that. “Sit down,” she instructed, without really knowing why. Just to see if he would listen. He did, settling dutifully on the edge of the bed, while Trixie stood and took his place. Reaching out for his neck, she mumbled, “You owe me for this.” 

Trixie drew her thumb along the line of his jaw, down from his ear to his chin, until the hook of her finger held his head up to look at her. “Four bedrooms,” he said, his voice like gravel. His blue eyes were heavy lidded, and Trixie thought back to the last time she had been here, the things she’d imagined in this very bed, next to this very man. He looked now like he’d looked in her imagination. 

She shook her head. “No, Tommy. Not with the house.” 

He seemed weak, now, easy. She wanted to start a fight with him, but she knew she would lose. Instead, she pressed her thumbnail hard into his bottom lip. “Not with the house?” he mumbled. 

She craned her head down towards him. “I want my own razor blades. You’re going to buy me the most expensive hat from the milliner and have her sew them in.” 

“You want a hat,” he deadpanned, like she’d just asked him for a flying horse. Trixie seized his jaw in her grip and squeezed it roughly. 

“I want you to know that you didn’t make me, and I will never belong to you.” 

This was a kind of fight too, she supposed. Tommy’s hands were flat on the quilt, his lip swollen from her touch. Here they were, two people trying to destroy each other. “You remember what you said to me in the car? After Kimber’s house?” he asked, reaching up and putting a hand around her wrist. 

He’d had enough of succumbing. When he stood, Trixie very deliberately did not step back to make room for his body, and so he pressed heavy against her, chest to chest. She’d never been this close to anyone, even to Luca. “Which part?” Trixie’s memory of the night had been fogged by her own deliriousness, and she wasn’t sure where her thoughts had stopped and her words had begun. 

“ _ It doesn’t matter if it hurts,”  _ he quoted, his voice low and rough. Trixie  _ wanted  _ him, wanted to push him back down the stairs and give herself to him at the same time. 

“Nothing else compares,” she finished. “Do you think we’re alike?” 

Tommy’s grip on her wrist tightened, but she held still. “You don’t want to be like me.” 

“That’s not my question.” Trixie felt her core catch fire, felt her heart slamming in her chest. “You don’t know what I want, Tommy.” 

“I don’t?” he asked, releasing her wrist and moving his hand to the small of her back. Body-to-body like that morning on the canal, his hands on her like the morning on the canal. The same anger, she realized. The same game she was scrabbling to win. 

Trixie tried not to shake. “You don’t.” 

“House in the countryside?” he mumbled, dipping his head to the side of her neck and placing one, chaste kiss under her jaw. 

“ _ Tommy! _ ” Arthur shouted from downstairs. “ _ Where the bloody hell are you?”  _

She took a step back, trying to keep balanced. “What’s going on?” she asked, horrified first at the wobble in her voice and second at the stupid question. 

Tommy shrugged. “We have to get downstairs,” he said. “Ceremony’s starting soon.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI I’m so sorry for the delay….my main excuse is being an American (it’s literally a disease lol get well soon) and being so . stressed out recently but I’m back and the world is so?? Weird? Anyway. My other excuse is that this chapter was being really difficult and I’m still not completely happy with how it turned out, but I think this is the best I can do for it right now and hopefully it isn’t too bad. 
> 
> On a separate note, I’ve been outlining future parts of this series and getting….so emotional. Book 2 is gonna end up around 40 chapters?? I think? There’s a lot of exciting stuff coming up and I hope you will all want to stick around that long and see what happens!
> 
> In other news, I’m looking for a beta reader who can help with line edits! Most of my writing is done so early in the morning and I’m really bad with proofreading, so if anyone would be interested in looking things over please let me know. 
> 
> As always, thank you to hazelbites, Molliver, peppermore, dirtygoldensoul, Elena, ferallahey, bkazza, Shareece, 15marba, SpecialAgentFiction, FenHarelEnansal, cdsnowbarger, macademilk, oOlive, Gin_In_A_Tin, Luckylily, JMBH, Missingartist, and lmenin for commenting! I appreciate it so, so much. Please feel free to let me know what you thought of this chapter as well!
> 
>  **Chapter 18** / _I Do_
> 
> “At this point,” said Jeremiah, “I usually tell the man to kiss the bride.” 


	19. I Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There had been no grand transformation since Polly had hauled her up to the bedroom, but Tommy trained his eyes on Trixie nonetheless. She wobbled under the force of it. “Alright,” she said, meeting his gaze and pretending she was undaunted. “Let’s get married.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listen to this chapter’s soundtrack [here.](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0UhVmfYsoasEliu6stPO4R?si=xjUORE-7Sh-_GH4vWG8dQg)

_ “ _ _ What God has joined together, let no one separate." _ —11 Mark 10:9

Trixie didn’t understand what Tommy meant until he was halfway downstairs.  _ The ceremony.  _ Their  _ wedding  _ ceremony. 

Unhelpfully, her mind supplied,  _ If you marry him you won’t have to feel so guilty.  _ But this wasn’t marriage, this wasn’t love, this was business and— _ sex _ . Something like it, without crossing that threshold. Trixie’s neck burned where his lips had been, and she brushed over the spot with her fingers to see if it was as feverish as she felt—nothing. Like nothing had ever happened. She squeezed her eyes shut and imagined that Arthur had not returned to the house so soon, and that Tommy would seize her roughly by the waist, taken her to his bed, and—

“Oh, for the love of  _ God,”  _ she muttered. Here she was again, in Tommy’s bedroom,  _ fantasizing about Tommy.  _ She balled her hands into fists and pivoted for the door.  _ One crisis at a time.  _ Downstairs, she found the rest of the Shelbys smoking with Jeremiah Jesus. 

“Eh, there she is!” John howled, clapping and smacking Tommy on the shoulder. The brothers had apparently made up at some point, judging by the generous smile on Tommy’s face. 

“Alright, John,” Tommy said, but he didn’t step forward. He looked oddly relaxed, hands in his pockets. 

“You’re not dressed like much of a bride,” Arthur remarked, gesturing at Trixie with the flask in his hand. She wasn’t dressed like much of a bride, that was true, but since she’d only gotten the notice of her wedding an  _ hour  _ previous, she was willing to forgive the fault. Her collar was white, if that counted for anything. 

Polly bypassed him from behind and snatched the drink from his hands. “No drinking until the reception. It’s a holy day.” With a glint in her eye, she looked at Trixie and said, “Tommy Shelby’s settling down.” 

“We’re all aware of what’s actually going on, right?” Trixie clarified. “You know I’m not actually marrying him.” 

“You need something blue,” Polly said. “Come on upstairs, then, we’ll make something fun out of this.” 

“I thought the ceremony was starting soon?” Trixie asked, partially out of confusion and partially to avoid the interrogation that was sure to follow once Polly had her alone. 

“Ceremony starts when the bride’s ready,” Polly replied, and before Trixie could protest, she was being marched back up the stairs to Polly’s bedroom. The biggest in the house, with green floral wallpaper and a large mirror over the bureau. 

All she could think, as Polly sat her down before the vanity, was that she wished Ada was here. She wished she’d been at Ada’s wedding. She wished her parents could come to her wedding, and that Luca was alive, so that they wouldn’t both drop dead, again, of heart attacks when they discovered who the groom was. 

“Beatrice,” Polly said, stern. 

“You never call me Beatrice,” Trixie said, wrenching around in the chair. “Has something happened?” 

Polly took her hands gently and sunk down onto the corner of the bed, so they were level. “I had a dream last night, Trixie.” 

She waited. Polly had always been superstitious—most of the Peakys were, even if the Shelbys tended not to be. While Trixie had usually dismissed the bad omens as meaningless, it must have been important for Polly to drag her all the way upstairs and break the news. “What did you dream, Poll?” 

Squeezing Trixie’s hands, Polly looked out the window at the buildings down the road. “Three knocks at the door, my dear.  _ Your  _ door. Years into the future, Trixie, in this very house. I watched as you reached for the knob, and on your finger you wore a ring.” 

“Is this about Tommy’s mother’s ring?” Trixie interrupted. “You can have it back—I mean, it’s not a real marriage, there’s no need to use it if it’s valuable.” 

“Not Martha’s,” Polly said. “Not Martha’s ring. Brass band, Trixie, and a red stone. You opened the door and a priest was waiting with a noose.” 

“It’s just a dream, Poll,” Trixie was quick to object. “And anyway, death is an occupational hazard in this family.”

“Dreams don’t lie,” Polly insisted. “Not mine, at least.” Reaching past Trixie, she opened up one of the drawers beneath the vanity and pulled out a necklace with a small blue jewel at the center. “You need good luck, I’ve had this blessed.” 

“It’s beautiful,” Trixie said. 

Though she was dubious about its effects as far as harm reduction was concerned, Trixie didn’t want Polly to fret for no reason. If the necklace would ease her mind there was no reason not to wear it. She waited quietly as Polly clasped the hook behind her neck, gemstone resting delicately over the fabric of her dress. “You look beautiful, you know,” she said. 

“I look the same as I do on any ordinary day,” Trixie deflected, avoiding Polly’s eyes in the mirror. “Just with a new necklace.” 

She sighed, wondering whether or not she should stand up. Trixie wanted to talk to Polly just a bit longer, wanted to get somewhat closer to understanding what was happening, why she’d been chosen, why they’d gone with this plan at all. Getting married was supposed to be more than this; she’d wanted it to be more than this, but there wasn’t anything else to say. 

“Oh, I do wish you’d met Tommy before the war,” Polly said, standing behind Trixie and resting her hands on her shoulders. 

She arched an eyebrow. “John said the same thing.” 

“He was younger, then. Still believed in love, and all that. I think you would’ve liked him.” 

_ I like him now.  _ “He probably would’ve tricked me and left me heartbroken.” 

“No, no,” said Polly, sadness edging into her voice. “He didn’t have it in him to be so manipulative. Not before. He was honest.” 

Trixie swallowed, and tried not to imagine a world where Tommy Shelby swept her off her feet when they were kids. “No use dwelling on the hypotheticals,” she managed. “I have to marry who he is now, and I suppose he has to take me as I am as well.” 

“That’s all love is,” Polly said. “Now come on, love. Let’s get you back downstairs.” 

There had been no grand transformation since Polly had hauled her up to the bedroom, but Tommy trained his eyes on Trixie nonetheless. She wobbled under the force of it. “Alright,” she said, meeting his gaze and pretending she was undaunted. “Let’s get married.” 

* * *

St. Catherine’s church was surrounded on all sides by Blinders when the Shelbys arrived, Beatrice in tow. She expected the inside of the building to be busy, too, given all the hubbub outside, but it was deserted. Just Jeremiah, the four Shelby brothers, Polly, and the bride. 

“Be seated, please,” Jeremiah asked. “The ceremony will begin soon.” 

Polly looped her arm through Trixie’s crooked elbow and led her to the last row of pews, where they stood for what felt like an eternity. Trixie wasn’t sure if she was anxious for the ceremony to start or to finish, but she knew she felt restless.  _ House in the country?  _ The memory of Tommy not an hour earlier was tormenting her still. 

That man—who’d stood pressed against her,  _ knowing  _ what he was doing—did not belong in a place like this, dwarfed by a crucified Jesus and haloed on all sides by the colored light pouring in through the stained glass. Then again—Trixie had done her fair share of lying in the confessional. Tommy didn’t belong here, surely enough, but it was possible that she didn’t either. 

“When will we know when to walk?” Trixie whispered. “There’s no music.” 

“Bridal instinct,” Polly replied. 

“That’s not real,” Trixie said. 

She stepped forward anyway, jolting Jeremiah and forcing him to hurry quickly through the pages of his Bible until he found the passage he meant to read from. Bridal instinct was a myth, she’d been right, but she’d also started walking far too early. 

In any case, it felt pathetic to stop halfway down the aisle and wait, so she continued her strides until she was stepping onto the altar opposite Tommy. He looked sharp in his immaculate suit, but he always looked like that. It wasn’t for her. 

He held out his hands, and Trixie extended her own, not quite meeting his grip so much as brushing her fingertips against his palms. She didn’t think much of it until he reached up and interlaced their fingers, palms towards heaven, hands in the shapes of steeples. 

“Nice to see you,” said Trixie, smiling awkwardly as Jeremiah continued rustling through the Bible. 

“Generous,” he remarked, and it was all Trixie could do not to smack him on the arm. 

“Ready?” asked Jeremiah. 

Tommy looked to Trixie for confirmation, so she gave a sharp nod. “Ready.” 

“We are gathered here today to honor the union between Thomas Shelby and Beatrice Price,” Jeremiah began. “Before we begin the ceremony, I must ask a few questions. First. Thomas Shelby and Beatrice Price, have you come here to enter into Marriage without coercion, freely and wholeheartedly?” 

Trixie blinked. “Um,” she said, looking up at Tommy. 

He must’ve recognized her panic. “Skip ahead, Jeremiah,” he instructed. 

“Right, Thomas.” He shrugged. “Are you prepared, as you follow the path of Marriage, to love and honor each other for a long as you both shall live?” 

This felt more like a Peaky Blinder initiation oath than a declaration of love. “Til the bleak midwinter,” said Tommy. Trixie snorted, rather unceremoniously. “Next one?” 

“This is the last part of the declaration of consent,” Jeremiah announced, sounding exasperated. Trixie suddenly felt guilty, and steeled herself for the final question. “Are you prepared to accept children lovingly from God and to bring them up according to the law of Christ and His Church?” Jeremiah asked. 

From the front pew, John snorted. When Trixie’s eyes flew over, Polly was lifting an arm to smack him across the shoulder, eliciting a giggle from Arthur. “Fine,” Trixie said. “Law of Christ and His Church, all that.” 

Jeremiah shrugged. “Since it is your intention to enter into the covenant of Holy Matrimony, join your right hands, and declare your consent before God and His Church.” 

He took a step back, and suddenly Tommy possessed Trixie’s entire line of sight, striking as ever, so bright it ached. If that wasn’t enough, he’d been framed over his head by a stained glass piece depicting Jesus at the seventh station of the cross, all that was god and evil molded together before her in a way that did not balance out into human, but projected the image of something along the lines of Lucifer as the Lightbringer and then as the Devil. “Christ,” she muttered.

Tommy held her gaze. “I, Thomas Shelby,” he recited, “take you, Beatrice Price, to be mine. I promise to be true to you in prosperity and suffering, in sickness and in health.” He dropped his eyes to her lips for a brief moment, before returning them to her own.  _ “I will love you and honor you all the days of my life,” _ he murmured. 

Trixie tried not to shiver, taking in the man before her for a long moment before realizing that it was her turn now to say the vows. “I don’t remember what I’m supposed to say,” she whispered to Tommy, even though everyone else in the church could certainly hear her. 

Years ago, she’d memorized her vows for Luca, but the knowledge was lost on her now. If she reached out for it, it skittered away. Jeremiah cleared his throat. “Do you, Beatrice Price, take Thomas Shelby to be your husband? Do you promise to be faithful to him in prosperity and in suffering, in sickness and in health, to love him and to honor him all the days of your life?” 

She swallowed. “I do,” she managed, her voice coming out throaty and unfamiliar. “I do,” she repeated. 

“The rings?” Jeremiah asked. 

John stood, reaching into his pocket and digging out two bands, the one Trixie had discarded in the picnic basket that morning— _ God  _ this was a long day—and another complimentary gold band. “Right, here they are,” he mumbled. 

Pulling his hands away, Tommy accepted the rings, handing the gold band to Trixie. “I think this one’s yours,” she said. 

“You exchange them,” Jeremiah reminded her gently. 

She squeezed her eyes shut, heat already creeping into her cheeks, and tilted her head back towards the ceiling.  _ Fucking of course you do.  _ After a moment of indulging her shame, Trixie returned to the ceremony, holding the wedding band away from her face as if it was somehow infected. 

Holding his hand up between the two of them, Jeremiah professed, “O Lord, these rings we bless in your name, so that those who wear them may remain entirely faithful to each other, abide in peace and in your will, and live always in mutual charity. Through Christ, our Lord…” 

“Amen,” said Trixie. 

“Amen,” said Tommy. 

Tommy gently tugged her hand towards him, sliding the ring back on her finger. “Beatrice,” he mumbled. “Receive this ring as a sign of my love and fidelity. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.” 

That was easy enough. Trixie mirrored his motions and repeated, “Tommy, receive this ring as a sign of my love and fidelity. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and the Holy Ghost.” 

“Assume you don’t want to do the full mass?” Jeremiah asked. 

“You’ve assumed correctly,” said Tommy. “We’ve got boxes to unpack.” 

“Alright, Mr. Shelby,” he said. “At this point, I usually tell the man to kiss the bride.” 

Trixie arched an eyebrow. Kissing Tommy shouldn’t have been so daunting—not when they’d gotten so close earlier—but they were no longer alone in his bedroom, and she hardly wanted to make that covenant while his brothers, her boss, a priest, and God watched. Instead, she turned her head towards the crucifix looming over the altar and presented the side of her face. Tommy dipped his head graciously and kissed her chastely on the side of her face. “Til death,” he murmured. 

“Til death,” she found herself gasping in return. 

_ Til death.  _ It was funny. Trixie lifted her hand to the jewel on her neck. 

* * *

“I now pronounce you man and  _ fucking  _ wife!” Arthur shouted, hoisting up his drink and taking a generous gulp of its contents. 

In the Garrison’s pocket room, the Shelbys sat sandwiched in their booth as Grace and Harry brought round after round of drinks. “Give a speech,” John demanded, pointing at Tommy with his cigarette. “About your  _ true love.”  _

“Not one for speeches, really,” he deferred. Trixie caught Grace looking back at the group over her shoulder, and smiled politely. Probably not the smartest for them all to get drunk in the presence of a spy. She nudged her drink towards the center of the table. 

“I’ll give a speech,” she announced. Really, she was just growing overheated from her spot between Tommy and John. They were all too drunk to remember if she said anything embarrassing—except Tommy, maybe, whose sobriety was always hard to read. In any case, this was hardly the worst she’d done. 

Tommy slid out of the booth to give her room to escape, and Trixie followed after him, accepting the hand of support he offered. 

Trixie raised her glass of champagne, mostly as a symbol, and said, “I just want to thank you all, for everything. Especially Polly.” She smiled. “I had nothing, really, before I met you. I had just lost my father. I had no siblings, no money. You’ve all become like family to me. And I’m grateful now to have made it official.” 

“To Trixie,” John matched, holding up his own glass. 

“To Trixie,” the other Shelbys echoed. 

She sat back down where Tommy had left room for her, and he put his palm flat on her knee. “Nice speech,” he remarked, while the rest of the family had gone back to laughing and shouting. 

“Thank you,” she replied politely. “I meant it. Except—I mean, except the wedding part.” 

“I know,” he said. His hand disappeared, leaving her leg cold. Trixie put a hand over her mouth to stifle a yawn, and leaned against the back cushion of the chair. This was her family, for now; she didn’t want to forget any part of it.  _ I must be the only person in the world to be orphaned twice.  _

* * *

That night, her first in the Shelby house, Trixie could not sleep. Ada’s mattress was too soft and her room too cold and the sheets smelled faintly of perfume, so Trixie tossed the covers off her body after a few hours of trying and hiked up the stairs to the third floor. She raised her fist and knocked at Tommy’s door, feeling slightly ridiculous for her manners. 

“Mrs. Shelby,” Tommy greeted, uncharacteristically cheeky. He was between states of dress now, tie and collar gone, top buttons undone, shoes kicked off. She didn’t know if she wanted to fix it or pull the remaining signs of his suit off of him. 

“Mr. Price,” Trixie retorted. 

Tommy raised an eyebrow, pulling the door open a bit wider to allow her room to pass through. “Does that not remind you of your father?” 

“Does  _ Mrs. Shelby _ not recall memories of your mother?” 

He paused for a moment at the door, and Trixie made herself at home on his bed in the unfocused moment. Her back to the wall, and her legs stretched out before her, she patted the spot behind her. 

“And anyway—it doesn’t,” she said. “My father was always Pastor Martin.”

“You think he’d be proud of you?” Tommy asked, grunting a bit as he settled beside her. “Your Priest father.” 

“Not a chance in hell,” she replied. “I think I’ve disappointed him in every possible way.” 

“My father too,” he remarked, scratching at the stubble creeping in on his jaw. 

“Bully for us,” Trixie deadpanned, raising an invisible glass to toast. 

“I’ll do you one better.” Tommy leaned over to his nightstand, the hem of his shirt rising with his reach and revealing a line of hard muscle on his hip. He pulled open the drawer and retrieved a bottle of gin, passing it to Trixie. 

“I bet this isn’t how you expected your wedding night to go,” she remarked, taking a sip of the gin from the bottle and passing it back to Tommy. “Fake married to some woman you’re trying to get rid of, who you’ve never so much as kissed.” 

Tommy gave a slow blink and screwed the cap back on the bottle, setting it gently down on the blanket. “Do you want me to kiss you, Beatrice?” 

She could suddenly feel the eyes of god looking down on her, and she shivered before she could help it.  _ Yes.  _ “No.”  _ Only if you mean it.  _ “I want it to mean something.” She shot him a wry smile. “Even if it’s not like that for you.” Which it wasn’t, which it never would be. Trixie knew where she was wanted, and she was much too old to go out of her way to get her heart broken. 

He sighed, leaning his head back against the wall. “That why you’ve no interest in fucking?” 

Trixie started before realizing how bizarre her reaction was.  _ No interest?  _ She recalled the memories of the night they’d shared this bed. Tommy touching her,  _ fucking  _ her. “I don’t want my first time to be empty,” she said. At this point, fake-married and only a few months away from leaving his life forever, she was past feeling embarrassed. 

“The other one,” said Tommy. “Did he mean something?” 

Trixie knew he’d fucked up the name on purpose, because Tommy Shelby was far too smart to be careless with details. “He meant everything,” Trixie replied. “But I wasn’t ready. We were so young. It feels so long ago.” She sighed. “Now I’m an old maid, though, and nobody’ll want me.” 

“Nobody’s touched you,” Tommy said. “Means every fuckin’ man wants you.” He uncapped the bottle and took a gulp. “‘S how men function, you know? They wanna be the only one.” 

“ _ Men,”  _ Trixie enunciated. “They. Not you?” 

Tommy shrugged. “Fucking’s fun, but it’s just a distraction.” 

Trixie sighed. To think she’d wanted him. To think all of Small Heath expected them to be consummating their marriage at this very moment. Meanwhile, he saw sex as nothing beyond distraction. 

She took a chance and leaned against his shoulder, trying not to flush at the way he bristled. “I know we’re not married,” said Trixie, “but it’s cold in this house, so please just do this for me, alright?” He inhaled, as if to speak, but instead lifted his arm and wrapped it over her shoulder. Trixie watched the clock on the bureau tick-tick-tick the minutes away before she grew bored, and decided to ask, “If I was going to marry any of you— _ actually  _ marry any of you—who do you think I’d pair best with?” 

Tommy pulled his arm away and Trixie pouted, only for him to roll his eyes at her. “Polly,” he said. 

“God,” Trixie hissed, making a face. “She’s like a mother to me.” 

“You asked,” Tommy retorted. “Are you still cold?” 

“Yeah,” said Trixie. “Gin’s helping, though.” To demonstrate, she took a large, burning gulp and suppressed the coughs that threatened to follow. 

“Just get under the blankets,” Tommy insisted. “You can go back to your room in the morning.” 

Trixie considered declining on principle, but it  _ was  _ cold, and she had work tomorrow, and she would do better if she was well rested. “Alright,” she said, gathering the fabric of her skirt and holding it down as she moved to the pillow. She stuck her legs under the blankets and decided that she’d made the right decision: Tommy’s bed was warm. “Do you sleep like that?” she asked, pointing at him with the bottle. “Whenever I see you sleeping you’re wearing—something like that. Maybe a nightshirt.” 

“You’ve only see me sleep on special occasions,” he said. 

“Feel like you only sleep at all on special occasions,” she mumbled, sipping from the bottle. 

He glared at her, and she just smiled back at him. “I don’t sleep like this. I was going to change.” 

“Sorry,” said Trixie. She checked to make sure the bottle was shut tight, and flipped over onto her side so she was facing the wall. “Don’t mind me.” 

Tommy sighed and stood from the bed. She could hear the rustling of clothes as he changed, and tried not to imagine the shape of his body under the lamplight. 

In a moment of what could only be explained as insanity, Trixie considered revisiting the prospect of fucking. It was their wedding night, wasn’t it? This was hardly the most inappropriate time to ask him, but—any time to bring it up would be fucking mad, and Trixie hadn’t quite lost it that badly. After a moment, Tommy slid into bed next to her, his body creating a dip in the mattress that she had to lean forward to resist. 

“Hm,” he said. 

“What,” Trixie replied, rolling onto her back so they were shoulder-to-shoulder. 

“Thinking about earlier, in this spot,” he elaborated. Trixie thought he might bring up the almost kiss, but instead, he said, “and how you said you’d never sleep with me.” 

She rolled her eyes. “Well, looks like we both lost, then,” Trixie said. “I have the misfortune of being wrong, and you have the misfortune of my presence.” She passed him the bottle and he set it down on the nightstand. “Where would you go on a honeymoon?” she asked. “If you married someone you loved.” 

“America,” he replied. “The place in the west, where it’s always sunny.” 

“California?” 

“Yeah.” He nodded. “California.” 

“I’d go to Korea,” she said. “Or—well, if they hadn’t been invaded by Japan, I’d go. But I don’t think it would be much fun for me now.” 

“You keep up with international politics then?” Tommy asked, already reaching to the end table for the inevitable cigarette. He passed one to Trixie before she could ask, and struck a match to light the both of them, the flame at the center where their two joints bumped. 

“Only where I’m interested,” Trixie replied. “I never knew my mother or her family. I’m not even sure if they’re still alive. And I guess I follow any news that comes out of Trinidad, though my father only lived there for a little.” She shrugged. “Why? You don’t?”

“Nah,” he dismissed. “It’s all a distraction from what I have in front of me right now.” 

“Pretend weddings?” 

“ _ Birmingham.”  _

“Right.” She sighed, waving the cigarette with a flourish. “Who are world politics to get between a king and his empire?” Trixie paused. “Am I Birmingham royalty now, too?” 

Tommy turned to her. “If you want to be.” 

Trixie shrugged. “As a kid I was never allowed to play princess. Funny how it all happened, in a fucked sort of way.” She sat up. “I have a question.”

He said nothing, just sat there with his cigarette balanced between his lips. 

“Earlier. Why did you do that?” 

“Be specific.” 

“Why did you…” Her mind flashed back to his mouth under her ear. “You kissed my neck. And I know it wasn’t because of the fucking engagement—marriage—whatever it is. Nobody was there.” 

He reached up, arms languid, as he propped his head up on his interlaced fingers. “Not everything’s politics, Beatrice. You said that.” 

She blinked. What the hell did that mean? “I said that. But you don’t mean that. That’s—that’s not you.” 

“Tell me who I am, then.” 

Trixie flinched. “You think love is futile and sex is a distraction. You want to get rid of me, so you bought me out. This whole—I mean, you just put up with me, but I know you think I’m ridiculous and naive. For you, there’s only politics.” 

Tommy arched an eyebrow. 

“You wish I felt the same,” she added, when he said nothing, tilting her chin up and trying not to let her racing pulse shake her words. “That I was just someone to fuck and never see again.” For a long moment, he just stared at her, blinking very deliberately, and when he opened his mouth to speak, she hurried to continue, “I don’t blame you. I wish I was that way, too. That I could just—get it over with. I’m not stupid, Tommy, even if you like to think that I am, but sometimes I wish I were. It would save me so much trouble.” 

He kept staring, and Trixie wondered if he was going to say something so crushing it sent her crawling back out the window again. But Tommy simply took her hand and said, “You’re fine as you are. There’s no room for fools in this business.” 

“Explain Arthur, then,” she said, before she could help it. 

Tommy shot her a wry smile, and Trixie bit back a laugh. “Special case,” he replied. “But the rest of them—they’re not like us. And we’ll never be like them.” 

“ _ We,”  _ mused Trixie. “Funny word, that.” She sighed. “I used to be more naive, I think. I think that’s why Polly and John both tell me that I should’ve met you before.” 

He darkened a bit at that. “What do you mean?” 

She chose her words carefully. “They think we would’ve gotten along better. I think you would’ve broken my heart.” 

Tommy took a drag of his cigarette. “Are you having regrets about the plan yet?” 

“No,” she said, honestly. “I want this. For your family and for you. There was never any question.” Trixie nudged his knee with her own. “Campbell offered me a deal, you know. At the very beginning. A better deal than you ever could, but I said no.” She imagined herself carrying Luca’s ghost around Manhattan. “Said he’d send me to New York, where I’d be protected. I’d have an income, I could start over. New name, new life, new everything.” 

“So why didn’t you take it? If he could give you everything.” 

“Not everything’s politics,” she echoed. “I love Polly. I love John. I love Finn. I wouldn’t— _ love  _ seems a bit strong for Arthur, but—your family is my family. If I have to leave, I’ll leave protecting them.” 

“You care about them?” 

She nodded. 

“You want to protect them?” 

She nodded again. 

Tommy exhaled smoke and ashed his cigarette. “I need a favor from you, then. Tomorrow. 2 o’clock, meet me in the garage. You can take the rest of the day off.” 

“Alright,” Trixie agreed. “Would you like to elaborate more on this favor?” 

“All in due time,” he assured her. 

His deliberate vagueness bothered her like it always did, but it no longer felt uncomfortable to walk into a situation blind. Trixie could complain about Tommy’s hubris, and his outlook on life, but he was fucking good at what he did, and she was able to trust him at least enough to keep her alive. After all—a dead wife the day after the wedding would do nothing but incite chaos. 

“I’ve got to be at the Garrison tomorrow at eight,” Trixie said. “Have you got the time?” 

Tommy fumbled for his pocketwatch, the chain dragging noisily across the top of the endtable as he pulled it towards him. “Quarter past four.” 

“Shit,” said Trixie, elbowing him until he took her cigarette and placed it in the ashtray. “I’ve got to go to sleep.” It felt impolite to simply sink back down under the covers, so she took a moment to ask, “Are you sure it’s alright if I stay? I’m warmer now. I don’t mind going back downstairs.” 

He shook his head. “It’s fine. You’ll wake Poll if you take the stairs now.” 

“Alright,” she said, like it wasn’t alright, and slid back down the mattress, her legs curling up tight to her chest. “Goodnight, Tommy.” 

He flicked off the lamp, but the lights of the city outside were still bright enough to make shadows of the furniture. “Night, Beatrice.” 

Trixie dreamt of three knocks at her door, a priest with a noose, and a wedding band with a ruby at its head. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow married life...hi everyone I hope you are doing well! This fic has officially crossed the 300 page line in my document and we’re only like….halfway done lmfao. I’m enjoying episode 4 a lot, there’s so much Shelby drama to go into between the weddings, the baby, the jealousy next chapter (oops), and the betrayal. 
> 
> I’m thinking of doing some sort of oneshot for the holidays just so I can have the chance to write happy Tommy/Trixie but I’m not sure so please let me know if it’s something you’d be interested in and if you want to feel free to leave prompts for me! 
> 
> Thank you so so much to everyone who volunteered to be a beta reader!! I decided to make a quick form to keep track of interest so if you are interested please check out tinyurl.com/bbfbeta
> 
> As always, thank you so much to everyone who reviewed, namely dirtygoldensoul, ferallahey, jenn_carter13, Gin_In_A_Tin, lmenin, bkazza, trixareforeveryone, hazelbites, macademilk, cdsnowbarger, peppermore, wohnderwall, Missingartist, EmilyByrdStarr, oOlive, Elena, bexely, Shariebery, ucantstopme, moustache_bonnet, and SpecialAgentFiction! 
> 
> I appreciate all the feedback and comments so much, please let me know what you thought of this chapter as well :)
> 
>  **Chapter 19** / _One For the Money_
> 
> “Tommy didn’t tell you?” Lizzie said, searching wildly over Trixie’s shoulders for an escape path. 
> 
> Trixie raised an eyebrow. “Tommy didn’t tell me what?” 
> 
> Lizzie sputtered, her white-knuckled grip on the grocery basket beginning to tremble. “That he’s—that he’s one of my customers.” 


	20. One For the Money*

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A variety of first times.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _note: this chapter contains sexual content!_
> 
> listen to this chapter’s soundtrack [here.](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2JPo2UV7OyI3Fid5jPuhJh?si=VZ9KZyLmRsa_Dk8zzC3n4A)

_ “A tranquil heart gives life to the flesh, but envy makes the bones rot.” _ —Proverbs 14:30

Trixie blamed her tardiness to work on the fact that she could not locate her makeup among all the crates that had been dropped off at the house, choosing very deliberately to ignore the dream she’d had. The dream Polly had told her about.  _ Three knocks, priest with a noose.  _ It all meant she was going to die—but then again, of course she was. Everyone died, even without having a prophetic dream about it. 

By the time she arrived at the Garrison, Arthur was wiping the bar down with a rag he didn’t quite know how to use, while Grace opened up one of the shipment crates on a table. “Morning, Trixie,” she greeted, smiling politely. “I heard the exciting news.” 

“You weren’t working last night, were you?” Trixie dropped her purse on one of the tables and slipped off her gloves. “I would’ve said hello.” 

“No, I wasn’t,” said Grace. “My one night off, and I miss the wedding. I thought you were waiting for spring?” 

Trixie nodded, sliding into the chair across from her. “Circumstances pushed things up.” 

When Arthur heard that, he threw the rag down on the bar and disappeared into the back office, apparently done hearing the women’s business. 

“I’m pregnant,” Trixie whispered with a coy smile. “And so—well—” She gestured vaguely at her stomach. “You know.” 

“That’s so exciting,” said Grace, lighting up. She moved around the table and wrapped Trixie in a tight hug, before stepping back to stare at her stomach. 

Trixie resisted the urge to crumple under her gaze. Had she been pregnant in reality, maybe the attention would’ve been warranted, but all Grace was truly looking at was her torso and nothing else. “Thank you,” she said, trying to match Grace’s joy even knowing it was probably artificial. “I’m hoping for a girl.” 

“Do you have a name?” Grace asked, moving back to the crate of cigarettes. 

“Oh, um—” Trixie noticed Arthur in the back office, looking through the different drawers for something. “Arthurina,” she blurted out. “Tommy wants to name the children after his family.” 

At the mention of his name—or some cheap variation of that—Arthur returned to the main room, now with a box of cash. “You’re not naming no fucking baby after me,” he called. “There’s only one Arthur Shelby.” 

“Right,” said Trixie. “Now there can be an Arthurina, too. You’ll still be special.” 

He glowered over the bar, not appreciating the unnecessary mockery. The family had agreed that this was the most ideal cover for the wedding being pushed up, but Trixie hadn’t put much thought into the details, figuring that they would come to her later on. 

“These cigarettes have a funny smell to them.” Grace frowned down at the crate and delicately plucked one of the boxes in her fingers. “They smell like rotting water.” 

Trixie crossed to the bar and took the money box from Arthur , sending him a pointed look before he could object. “I’m saving you the trouble,” she mumbled. 

“Rats have gotten to some of them,” Grace added, tossing the box down on the bar. Trixie peered over at it and noticed that she was right—the edges were frayed and punctured. After glancing sideways at Trixie, Grace asked, “They’re stolen, are they not?” 

“Don’t ask,” said Arthur. 

Trixie kept her face blank. Of course Grace had put it together—she was a spy, after all, and one didn’t get very far in that profession without basic skills of observation. So she knew about Tommy’s affairs being only partially legal. That was fine, so long as she didn’t know anything about the guns. 

“They smell because you keep them on a boat,” Grace surmised. 

“Why do you care?” Arthur asked. 

Trixie began sorting the bills by type, keeping busy while the other two stared each other down over the bar’s countertop. “You know, you should make a new start of this place,” Grace remarked. “Do it properly.” 

“These cigarettes aren’t fit to sell,” Arthur remarked, ignoring her input in favor of flicking the tin down the counter. It spun on the raised lettering. “Smell like Gallipoli.” 

“Maybe you should find a new place to store them,” Grace suggested. 

She was brazen now in her pursuit of the location of the guns. “It has to be far away from coppers,” said Arthur, and Trixie wanted to reach across the bar to smack him. She didn’t often work shifts where the two interacted, mostly because Trixie obstructed their conversations whenever possible, but if he was as loose-lipped normally as he was now, she wouldn’t doubt that Campbell had begun figuring out the branches of the Shelby kingdom. “Tommy’s orders.” 

Maybe Tommy was right to keep so much of the information about the business secret, even from his family. If Arthur knew where the guns were, he probably would’ve already passed that information onto Grace in an attempt to impress her. 

“What orders?” Grace casually inquired, leaning over the bar. Her shirt dipped from the gravity and Arthur’s eyes followed the movement. Trixie dropped a handful of coins onto the counter and hoped that the loud clatter would break his focus. 

“Always keep contraband near petrol boat moorings,” said Arthur, coming back to life. 

Trixie winced—she hadn’t expected Arthur’s immediate reaction to include revealing Tommy’s protocol. Judging from the surprise on Grace’s face, she hadn’t expected the information either. 

“I thought boats got searched,” she remarked, her words tinted with a demure curiosity that had to be disingenuous. 

“We moor them at junctions so there’s more than one way out.” He tapped his temple, as if to demonstrate his genius, and Trixie suddenly felt defensive of Tommy—of Arthur taking credit for his plans. 

Grace raised an eyebrow and then nodded, offering an impressed smile. “Your brother doesn’t obey the law, but he has rules,” she conceded. 

“Do you need my help throwing out the cigarettes?” Trixie asked then, tossing the coins back in the box and latching it shut. She shoved it in Arthur’s direction more forcefully than necessary, and turned to smile at Grace. “We should sort through and see if any of them are still good.” 

“Oh, no, I’ve got it,” Grace insisted. “You shouldn’t be lifting anything.” 

“I really don’t mind,” Trixie swore. 

“No, no, I’ve got it.” 

After she returned to the table, Trixie reached over the bar for one of the pencils Harry used to track orders. She scrawled a note down on the last page of the book. “Can you approve this order, Arthur?” 

“Wha—” he started, but she cut him off by holding the book out. 

**_DO YOU WANT YOUR TONGUE CUT OUT?_ **

Arthur scowled. “No,” he said. “We have enough rum in the back.” He tore the page from the book and threw it in the sink behind him, turning the sink on. The sputter of water drowned out his next words: “I won’t have you telling me what to do in my own fuckin’ pub.” 

“Alright,” said Trixie, nonplussed. “I’ll let Tommy know.” 

“Do that, won’t you?” 

She gave a thin smile and returned to the counting, scrawling down numbers from the previous night and adding up the collections from the last few days. Attendance at the Garrison had been light the day of the wedding, with Shelbys getting privacy from the rest of the frequent inhabitants. It made it easier, then, when Tommy arrived at the Garrison early. 

“Grace,” he greeted, nodding in her direction. “Are you keeping these two in check?” 

She laughed, looking back over her shoulder at Trixie and Arthur. “They’re not bad at all,” she assured him. 

“You’re early,” Trixie greeted dryly. 

“Couldn’t stay away.” His tone was painfully apathetic. “Can’t blame a husband for missing his wife. Shall we?” 

Trixie hopped off the stool, collecting her things. “Bye, Arthur. Grace.” 

“Who’s supposed to look over my numbers now?” Arthur asked, flipping halfheartedly through the book. 

Tommy shrugged. “Have Grace do it. Grace, you can add, right?” 

She nodded. “I can.” 

“Great. You’ll make a wonderful team.” Tommy wrapped an arm around Trixie’s waist and guided her out the Garrison’s door. It was oddly warm out for the season, and she scanned the sky for sunshine on instinct, even though she could tell by the gray light that she would find none. 

“What’s going on?” she asked. 

He smiled. “I’ve just had a meeting with the Lees. Things are looking up after all, Beatrice. Peace is coming soon.” 

She snorted. “Doubt that. Grace batted her eyelashes at Arthur once and he gave her all your protocol on contraband. I’d put money on a raid at the docks as soon as tonight.” Trixie wondered vaguely if the guns were at the docks—if it was actually that easy—but Tommy’s cool demeanor betrayed no answers. Her sense of self-preservation came close, but did not quite overcome her curiosity over their location. Trixie would rather endure the danger of knowing than the naivety of ignorance, but it seemed unlikely that he would share with her what even his brothers did not know. “Anyway, where are we going?” 

Tommy pulled the passenger door of his car open for Trixie, and she climbed in without questioning it. Once he’d settled behind the wheel, he lit a cigarette and said, “We’ve made a truce with the Lees. And Kimber has agreed to negotiate.” 

“Truce,” she repeated dubiously. “You don’t deal in truces, you deal in exchanges.” 

“Are you going to listen to me, or are you going to insult me?” he teased. “Smoke?” 

“Yeah,” she said, and he passed her the tin. She balanced it between her lips and leaned forward as he struck a match and lifted it to the tip of the tab. “Right. So, the Lees.” 

“I’m kin with them on my mother’s side, you know,” he offered. “Sometimes, it’s family business. And I’m going to need you, as family, to help this truce happen.” 

“Alright,” Trixie agreed. “What do you need me to do?” 

“I need you to break off John’s engagement to Lizzie Stark.” 

Trixie stared at him for a moment, trying to make sense of why  _ she  _ was ending John Shelby’s engagement, and why it needed to be ended in the first place, and why Tommy couldn’t be the one to do it himself. Tommy had arranged a marriage for John—how else could she explain it? “Why not Arthur?” she asked. 

“For—” 

“Don’t play stupid,” she admonished. “You’re arranging a marriage. Why not send Arthur off and let John continue whatever it is he has with Lizzie?” 

Tommy raised an eyebrow, almost impressed with her. “We choose our marriages carefully, Beatrice. They’re all useful.” 

“Is Ada marrying a communist useful?” she retorted. 

Silence fell heavy over them both, and Tommy started the car. He navigated towards Cheapside—towards the brothels, Trixie knew. Towards Lizzie Stark. Small Heath was dirt poor; Trixie wouldn’t turn her nose up at any of the other slums in the city, but Cheapside was occupied by a particular brand of people—married men fucking women on the sidewalks, groups of people passing opium pipes back and forth, snorting cocaine off the backs of their hands. Most of Small Heath had been conditioned into some sort of shame, be that over circumstances, sickness, or broken families, but Cheapside was brash and open and demanding. 

“This hardly seems appropriate,” she continued, dragging her eyes away from a man and a knelt woman behind one of the trash bins, and settling back on Tommy. His familiar visage was cold as ever, but somehow comforting in the context of this landscape. “I joined the family  _ yesterday,  _ I’ve never met this poor girl. Who am I to intervene in her affairs?” 

“I’m asking you to do this for the family,” Tommy said. “For the Peaky Blinders. I’m asking you to trust me.” 

His words left Trixie with the horrifying realization that she _did._ Trust him. The cruelest man she’d ever met, and she felt no reservations about playing pawn for whatever plan he’d cooked up. “Fine,” she said. “Fine, alright. Do I give her a reason?” 

“Tell her that I’ll intervene if not.” 

“I’m not threatening her for you,” Trixie objected, shaking her head. “I’ll tell her that you need to get the engagement thrown out, but I won’t scare her for no reason.” 

“Tell her I’m asking,” Tommy said. “Tell her that you’re asking on my behalf.” 

She rolled her eyes. “Alright.” 

A woman in a black dress turned out of one of the markets, a basket of groceries over her arm and a cigarette in one hand. The hat on her bowed head shielded her face, but the messy hair beneath betrayed her in one way or another. 

“That’s her,” Tommy said. “I’ll wait here for you to finish.” 

“Generous,” she muttered, “but it’s smarter for you to round the block and meet me on Kelter.” Trixie opened the door and stepped out onto the sidewalk, her purse hooked over her arm. “Miss Stark?” she called,  _ Lizzie  _ on her tongue but too familiar for a stranger. 

The woman whirled around, and when she saw Trixie heading towards her, her eyes bugged out of her head. “Uh—Miss Price. Fuck—Mrs. Shelby. Sorry.” 

“No, no, don’t be sorry,” Trixie said. “It’s new, it’s alright. I was just walking and I saw you and wanted to say hello. We haven’t met, um—well, but we’re going to be family, aren’t we? Congratulations are in order.” 

“Right,” said Lizzie, nodding. “Well, thanks, but I’ve—” 

“Is something wrong?” Trixie interrupted. “Look, I’m sorry if I’m catching you off guard or anything, I really just wanted to introduce myself and all. Tommy actually wanted me to talk to you.” 

“ _ Tommy?”  _ she sputtered. “So he—he didn’t tell you?” Lizzie asked, searching wildly over Trixie’s shoulders for an escape path. 

Trixie raised an eyebrow. “Tommy didn’t tell me what?” 

Lizzie sputtered, her white-knuckled grip on the grocery basket beginning to tremble. “That he’s—that he’s one of my customers.” 

“Cust—” Trixie began, before it dawned on her.  _ Customers.  _ Business transactions.  _ Fucking’s fun, but it’s just a distraction.  _ Tommy had gone to Lizzie. Regularly, if she considered him a customer. 

_ Oh my God.  _

Trixie didn’t know if she wanted to laugh or throw up or cry—and she didn’t know  _ why  _ she even cared. Of course Tommy had gone to see a prostitute; he wasn’t celibate, and it wasn’t like she’d expected him to be. King of Birmingham, and all that. What need did he have for honoring their relationship? It wasn’t even real. 

“I didn’t know he was engaged,” Lizzie said. “I swear, I didn’t know, but—” Suddenly switching tactics, she narrowed her eyes. “You’re not the first wife that’s come looking for a fight. I’ll defend myself.” 

“It’s alright,” she assured her, even if Trixie surely didn’t  _ feel  _ alright. “I promise, it’s alright. I didn’t come here to start anything.” 

Lizzie exhaled with relief, and fiddled with the brim of her hat. “He hasn’t come see me in a while, if it helps.” 

“Really?” Trixie asked. “Um—since when?” 

“October,” said Lizzie. “I track it all in a diary at home, for budgeting purposes, but I’d remember Thomas Shelby.” She flushed suddenly, and Trixie couldn’t help but bite her tongue to smother the nausea.  _ Why  _ did she feel so bad? She had no problem with prostitutes, she didn’t care for judging others’ morality, and the poor girl looked genuinely afraid. She’d only been doing her job—they were all only doing their jobs, pawns under Tommy Shelby’s hand. “He came to see me in October, at the beginning of the month, and once after that, but only to tell me he couldn’t see me any longer.” 

October—October had been the start of their engagement. Why had Tommy stopped? Reputation, maybe. Credibility of his story—their story. Eliminating any possible liabilities. 

“It’s alright,” Trixie repeated, not sure if she was talking to herself or to Lizzie. “I’m—we’re mostly involved for political reasons. We don’t love each other.” She pressed her tongue against her bottom teeth, and remembered why she was there. “Was John one of your customers, too?” she asked. 

Lizzie shook her head. “I like him. I’ve never slept with him.” She hesitated, as if afraid of what her next question would be answered with, but asked nonetheless: “Has Tommy told him?” 

“No,” Trixie answered, and then backtracked. “I don’t think so, at least. But I don’t think John would accept it if—if he knew.” 

“I don’t want to lose him,” Lizzie said, almost pleading. “He’s a good man.” 

“I know,” Trixie agreed. She bit the inside of her cheek. John was a good man, and he deserved to know that his wife had been having sex with his brother for two years. But Lizzie had done nothing wrong, not really. 

“The past is the past,” she swore. “I’ve given that work up. All of it. I’ve saved up to move out, and I want to begin typing courses at the technical school. Please don’t tell him.” 

Trixie wanted to strangle Tommy for throwing her to the wolves like this. This had been his plan, then—put her in a position where she was responsible for forging peace with the Lees by breaking her best friend’s heart and ruining this woman’s future. 

Lizzie Stark was a stranger. Trixie would never need to see her again if she told John. There would be no real consequences. The Lees, though—she reached up to her face, where the cut on her cheek had scarred over. The Lees would be back for another piece of her, and if the Peaky Blinders were weakened enough, so would Campbell. So would Kimber. 

He’d tied his fate to hers. Oldest trick in the book. 

But that went both ways, didn’t it? Tommy had taken some risk in assuming that she’d act the way he wanted her to, but Trixie had been around him long enough to recognize that every problem was an opportunity, and every secret was a crate of machine guns. 

Her choices held weight now. Who was she to waste that?

* * *

When Beatrice returned to the car, her lips turned up with displeasure, Tommy attempted to gauge what had happened. But she remained stubbornly silent, playing with a loose thread on her lace gloves and then pulling a metal round of lipstick from her purse, applying it carefully in the mirror, expressionless. 

“Did she agree?” he asked, when it became clear that she would not be starting the conversation. 

“You’re a very special type of hypocrite,” Beatrice remarked, her voice uncharacteristically cheerful. Tommy blinked, her words hitting like a smack to the face, even if they’d been expected. “Give John such difficulty for Lizzie Stark’s  _ profession  _ when you’ve been fucking her for two years?” 

“Did she agree?” he repeated. 

“It’s up to me, isn’t it?” Beatrice replied. “Whether or not I tell John.” She turned to him finally, arching an eyebrow and smiling kindly. “I’ll have to think about it.” 

“We don’t have time for you to think about it,” he snapped. 

“We do, actually,” said Beatrice. “Because nothing happens until I say so, unless you’re going to risk the stabbing that’ll follow if you tell him yourself.” 

He scanned her face, trying in vain to discern whether or not she was serious. “Delaying the wedding opens the opportunity for Kimber to threaten us,” he explained. “And that threatens our business with Campbell.” 

“Then I guess you’ll have to offer me something really convincing, won’t you?” Beatrice hummed. “Because you’re not going to let that happen, Tommy.” 

He started the car’s engine, navigating back to the house and mulling her words over. She was at least right that he wouldn’t let her stubbornness sabotage the work he’d done. Of course she was right. He’d underestimated her. 

At the next intersection, he braked more sharply than he’d meant to, and pulled out a cigarette from the tin in his pocket. Beatrice sat still and unbothered in the seat beside him. She looked so oddly non-threatening for a moment, fixing her lipstick in the compact, like she was the plain lady he thought she was when they met. What could he offer her when he barely understood her? Asking upfront was too pathetic to stomach, so he carried on with the drive back home and eventually pulled the car into the garage. 

“I’m impressed,” he admitted after a moment. 

She was good, but not good enough to hide her surprise. “Thank you,” she said, pleased with herself. “I want information.” Before he could object, she added, “Not about the business. I just want to understand what the fuck’s wrong with you.” 

Tommy leaned back. “What’s  _ wrong  _ with me,” he repeated. 

“Here’s how this’ll go,” Beatrice decided. 

“I’m not prone to following rules I don’t make.” 

“And I’m not prone to holding this much power, but we’ll both adjust.” She pulled off her gloves and dropped them on the car floor. “You’re not going to fuck anyone else until I’m gone. You’re not going to touch anyone else until I’m gone.” 

He wondered if Lizzie told her that he’d cut their arrangement short. He wondered if Beatrice had guesses as to why. “Fine,” he said. 

Beatrice reached out her hand to his face, resting the flat of her index finger under his chin, sliding it up to his throat, wrapping her hand loosely around his neck. She wasn’t strong enough to strangle him, she had to know that, but—this had always been the way things were between them. Killing wasn’t always killing, and where they couldn’t touch gently they would be violent. “You want me to ruin that girl’s life.” 

A thousand responses came to mind, each matching her cruelty, and Tommy lifted his hand to her wrist, gripping it with less hesitation than she offered. Beatrice shifted, clearly uncomfortable, but he didn’t let up as he considered his next words. Insults were cheap and easy; Tommy didn’t need to defeat her—not if he could convince her to join him. “Think of what you could have if you weren’t worried about the stray bullets of a war that’s yours to win, Beatrice.” 

She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. He thought he’d convinced her, until she laughed and tried to pull away from him. “You won’t even tell me what my winnings will be.” 

“Can’t be careless with things like this,” he muttered, pulling her wrist from his neck, ignoring the way her thumb dragged across his collarbone. “Never know who’s listening.” 

“Then come closer,” she said. 

Her words were a challenge, and unmistakably so, but compliance wasn’t in his nature. Tommy grabbed her roughly by the waist, the yelp of surprise from her lips only encouraging him further as he pulled her onto his lap. Beatrice settled into straddling him easy, smoothing out the confusion on her face before he could comment. “Close enough?”

“Tell me what I could have,” she ordered, leaning towards him, her hips bearing down on him. He could feel himself getting hard—like he was sixteen again and fucking Greta under the bridge. At least Greta had liked him; wanted him. Now, Beatrice stared down at him with such contempt that even their positioning didn’t seem to justify his reaction. 

“You want to be Birmingham royalty?” He pulled her closer. “You want power, Beatrice? You want to make decisions?” 

“Maybe I do,” she responded, her bravado crumbling at the edges. 

“Why don’t you ask, then?” Tommy put his hand on the side of her neck, watching as she leaned into his touch. “Ask for what you want.” 

Her eyes slid shut for a moment, a long blink, and then she was shaking. No, not shaking— _ laughing.  _ Sitting on his lap, in the front seat of his car, lit up by the slits of light between the boards making up the garage walls,  _ laughing.  _ “Oh, Tommy,” she sighed, like he’d proposed something absurd, and he was filled with blind rage and  _ want  _ and the sudden need to pin her down and prove how serious he was. “And why would I ask for permission, when I could just take it?” 

For the first time since the war, Tommy had no clue what he’d gotten himself into. Was she trying to fight him or fuck him? 

He found no answers in her touch, in the dip of her head, and the pressing of her lips to his, immediately followed up by seizing his bottom lip between her teeth.  With one hand raking through his hair, and her hips pressing down against him with an urgency and an anger that didn’t quite make sense, Beatrice seemed to wander between wanting to consume him and wanting to ruin him. Her desire was clear, but not quite enough to mask her inexperience. 

Tommy’s hands found her waist, heavy enough to bruise, all thoughts of John and Lizzie and the fucking expansion plan out the window. All he cared about were the sounds coming out of her mouth, somehow hostile as much as they were erotic. She tasted like strawberry jam and gin, and he found himself torn between staying still and enjoying it or moving his lips to his neck so he could hear her better. 

After biting down on his lip— _ hard _ —she broke the kiss in pursuit of her own breath. But Tommy wasn’t one for mercy. He dragged his lips down her jaw, her neck, her shoulder, as unforgiving as flint on steel while she gasped for breath. “Tommy—” she cried, softer than she probably meant to sound, before she caught herself and yanked him back by his hair. 

“Is this what you want?” he asked. “Is this you taking what you want?” 

“Shut up,” she growled, voice shaking as she fumbled with the knot on his tie. 

“Beatrice,” he rasped. When she didn’t let up, he covered her hands with his own and stopped her. “Beatrice,” he repeated, gentler. “You didn’t want to do this,” he reminded her, as much as he did. If it was anyone else, it would’ve been easy to take advantage of the momentary desire and ignore the regret that would follow, but Beatrice was different. “Don’t do something you’ll regret.” 

She leaned back, arching her spine in a way that made him ache. “I said I didn’t want to have sex,” she said. 

Tommy glanced back down at his tie, hanging loosely around his neck, and her dress, bunched up around her hips. “Right…” He didn’t remind her of the rest of it.  _ I want it to mean something.  _

“It doesn’t have to count,” she said. “We don’t have to fuck. If it doesn’t count, it doesn’t have to matter. I just—” She dropped her weight forward, pressing her forehead to his. “Can you just touch me, please?” 

She sounded so desperate, her plea equal parts filthy and sweet, and Tommy— _ fuck— _ Tommy knew he should say no, knew he absolutely didn’t deserve to be her first anything, and yet had to pin down his own wrist to keep from reaching up her thigh. “Beatrice.” 

“You don’t have to,” she amended with a shrug. “I can find James, and he can do it instead.” 

He grit his teeth, searching her eyes but finding no answer. When had she become so hard to read? There was a chance that she would get out of the car and leave him half-hard, stumble back to her neighbor—her copper neighbor, at that—and let him be the one to touch her—except there was no way in bloody _ hell  _ he would let that happen, so he considered a compromise. “We’re not doing it in the fucking car,” he said. 

“Car’s too nice for me?” she deadpanned. 

“No,” he replied, snatching the keys from the crux of the seat. “Not good enough for me.” Tommy guided her off his lap and opened the car door, trying for a moment to fix his tie before giving up and shoving the whole thing in his pocket. He stepped out, and held out his hand for Beatrice. 

She eyed it warily, like she hadn’t just been asking for it to be  _ inside her _ , but eventually accepted, landing on the ground with a click of her heels. 

Tommy yanked her towards him and pressed one more kiss to the line of her jaw, before setting off across the street. Under ordinary circumstances, he tried not to take advantage of how the regular people of Small Heath feared him; now, he appreciated the way the crowd parted, taking long strides across the street with Beatrice at his side, looking more like they were on their way to kill someone than anything else. 

Maybe she was. When it came to her, Tommy could never tell. 

“Coat?” he asked, once they were inside the Shelby house, and she shrugged her jacket off, handing it over. He didn’t bother arranging it nicely across the rack, especially not when she was already halfway up the stairs and leaving him to chase. 

He didn’t want to make it that easy for her, though, so he scaled the steps as he would after a day of work, taking his time, observing the wallpaper as if it were new. She stood at the top of the landing, uncertain of herself, and he tried not to take too much pleasure in the fact that she looked to him for a cue. “Does here suit your tastes?” she asked, falling back against the doorframe, feigning boredom. 

Without hesitating, Tommy strode down the landing to the doorframe of the bedroom, pressing himself to her. “Not quite,” he remarked, pushing the door open and her inside. She caught herself before she could stumble. 

If he thought she’d be easier to handle outside of the car, he was wrong. Beatrice stood at the foot of the bed, arms folded across her chest, and said, “Sit down.” 

“I’m not in the business of taking orders,” he reminded her, removing his jacket at a leisurely pace and draping it carefully over the back of the chair. “If you want something, you ask for it.” 

She raised an eyebrow. “It doesn’t have to be you.”

“Then leave,” Tommy said. “Why don’t you ask James to touch you, eh?” He leaned closer to her, slow, knowing how awful he was for enjoying the quiver of her lip, but enjoying it nonetheless. “I don’t think you would.” 

He didn’t think she would, but he’d been wrong before, and Beatrice rarely ran from dares. Tommy waited. 

“Why’s that?” she asked finally—not the answer he wanted, but not the one he feared either. 

“I think,” he mumbled, hands hovered over her hips. “I think you know he won’t be as good as me.” Dipping his head so his lips were mere inches from hers, Tommy murmured, “I’m the one who’ll have you begging to come, Beatrice. Nobody’s going to touch you like me.” 

She blinked, mouth falling open, before steeling herself again. “You talk a lot.” 

Tommy gripped her hips and pivoted, pushing her onto her back. Her knees fell open to make room for him, perhaps on instinct, and he took advantage, lowering himself between them, caught between a fear of breaking her and the desire to do just that. 

Taking his time seemed to be the course of action that would anger her the most, and so it was the one he found himself taking. Tommy dotted small kisses down her jaw and neck, ignoring the way she squirmed until her hips were bucking up against the bulge of his cock, at which point he decided that he had to get her under control, because he had too much self-respect to resort to dry-humping his virgin wife. “Keep still,” he ordered, lowering himself and bracketing her hips with his forearm. 

“ _ Touch me,”  _ she snapped. 

He drew his fingers up her leg, the thin fabric of her dress rippling out as he drew it up her hips. The stockings she wore beneath were pink, shades lighter than her thighs and suspended by garters. She writhed against the brace he’d splayed across her hips, swearing, pretty and mean and greedy. Tommy was hard, now, and she hadn’t even touched him—he blamed the fucking  _ noises  _ she was making. 

Still with one arm pinning her down, Tommy pressed a finger against her underwear—wet, already. Trixie curled her hands into the sheets above him, and he moved to the band of the garment, sliding his hand beneath and slipping a finger down toward her clit, brushing over it and then reeling back, eliciting a hiss and the buck of her hips. 

“ _ God,”  _ she moaned. “Please—“

“Say it,” he commanded. “If you want it, take it.” 

“Fucking  _ touch me.”  _

The spite in her voice egged him on, and Tommy rolled his thumb again over the spot that made her cry out, settling into a rhythm that had her shivering and reaching out for something to grab onto. He moved his arm to offer his hand. Beatrice grabbed onto him with surprising strength, throwing her head back onto the pillow— _ his  _ pillow, fuck—and arching her back. 

“ _ Oh— _ “ she stuttered. “Don’t stop,  _ please, God  _ don’t stop, I’m…” 

Beatrice faltered and Tommy decided to be cruel, pulling his hand away and watching as her hips dropped back down to the bed, deflated. “You’re  _ what,  _ Beatrice?” 

She threw her own hand down between her legs, frustrated enough to take matters into her own hands, and maybe if things were different he would’ve taken a moment to watch. But this was a matter of principle now, and Tommy wasn’t willing to compromise that for a good show. He grabbed her wrist roughly, pinning both down at her sides. 

“You’ll come when I say you can come,” he decided. 

“Or what?” she spat back, the edge of her words dulled by her quivering legs. 

Tommy didn’t answer, instead leaned forward and pressed his lips to her cunt, searching with his tongue for her clit and running his mouth over it and over it until she was whimpering, shaking almost violently. Wrenching out of his restraint, Beatrice grabbed a fistful of his hair in one hand and used the other to rake her nails down his neck, fingers slipping below his collar. Tommy hadn’t expected this, in all the times he imagined fucking her—those dreams tended to involve the ring on her finger and white underthings, sweet moans and vulnerability. This was hateful and punishing, and he still wanted it more than he’d wanted any of the fantasies he conjured up. 

“ _ Please _ ,” Trixie cried, her voice very small. “Tommy—I can’t take it— _ fuck, please... _ please let me _ —come!”  _

Her voice became a squeak as he quickened his strokes, and she seized, holding perfectly still for a long moment he carried her through, before the tension poured out of her in convulsions. 

“ _ Oh God oh God oh God,”  _ she gasped, hips still lifting and riding his tongue. He didn’t move until she collapsed, slumping back onto the pillow and letting out a satisfied sigh. From his spot between her legs, he watched her chest rise and fall as she chased her breath. A small giggle escaped from her lips—an odd enough reaction that he had to do a double take, but then it happened again. She was laughing. 

He considered persisting, just to hear her beg again, just to be mean, but she was already putting her underthings back in place, and he was wiping her off his chin, and she was swinging her legs back over the side of the bed to leave. Tommy put a hand on her thigh. “Wait.” 

“Can’t,” she replied. “Have somewhere to be.” 

“ _ Wait,”  _ he repeated, pushing her back down by the chest. 

“ _ Like I said,”  _ she challenged. “I have somewhere to be.” 

He stared at her. Who the hell was this woman? Preacher’s daughter, accountant, his  _ wife.  _ “Beatrice—“

“Thomas,” she mocked. “If you’re going to ask about John, I’m still deciding.” 

Oh,  _ hell.  _ John. Tommy hadn’t forgotten, but it hadn’t been at the forefront of his mind, even with the wedding set for the end of the week. “I wasn’t.” But now he wanted to. “You’re taking the day off, to prepare for an errand you’ll be running for me tomorrow.” 

“I don’t think I’ll be running any errands for you,” she returned, avoiding his eyes. 

It was fair, but she’d want to hear it. “I need you to go see Ada.” She glared at him, but didn’t struggle against him, which he took as a sign to continue. Tommy stood, feeling some comfort at the fact that he was now taller than her again. “She goes to a Bathhouse on Montague Street. She’ll be in disguise, and I need you inside.” 

“You’re putting a lot of trust in me, considering Lizzie and John.” 

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s women’s only on Tuesdays. That’s when she goes, because she doesn’t want to see the rest of us.” 

“Polly’s a woman.”

“Polly included.” 

Beatrice might be hard to read, but he could tell she would agree to it—for Ada’s sake, at the very least. “What am I to see her for?” 

“Well,” he said, sinking down into the chair opposite the bed and digging into his jacket pocket for a cigarette, “you were supposed to invite her to John and Esme’s wedding. But if you want to endanger the truce with the Lees, and risk that pretty face of yours getting cut up again you can invite her to John and Lizzie’s. Fair enough?” Rather than answer, she played with the hem of her dress, smoothing out her skirt. “I just want to make sure she’s okay. Ada may hate me, but she’s family. She’s my sister.” 

Rolling her eyes, Beatrice made a noise of discontent. “Fine,” she agreed. “I’ll go visit Ada.” 

“Thank you.” He paused. “Bring her some food. God knows those communists aren’t feeding her well, and she’s eating for two.” 

“Yeah, some gratitude’s nice,” she snorted, standing up from the bed. “I’ll go to the market.” 

“Oh—” he called. “Pick up some bacon, too, yeah?” 

“Fuck off!” she replied, over her shoulder. “If you want it, get it yourself.” 

The sound of her heels echoed down the stairs as she descended, and Tommy struck a match. Her taste lingered on his tongue, but he still didn’t know what she wanted from him. He was beginning to doubt that he ever would. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Umm...what if we kissed...after you told me to break off your brother’s engagement...to the prostitute you’ve been seeing for two years….but stopped seeing once we got fake engaged...what would you think about that….um anyways! Hi everyone thank you so much for reading this has been such a long time coming and I’m happy we are finally here? This was probably the angriest first kiss I’ve ever written but that’s just how these two clowns are so. 
> 
> Shoutout to Eiman and Stephanie for betaing this chapter!! And thank you to everyone who reviewed last chapter, specifically SpecialAgentFiction, ferallahey, Gin_In_A_Tin, eunhasoojs, jenn_carter13, lmenin, Safeerah21, Elena, Shareece, Luckylily, bexely, oOlive, Missingartist, PoppycockIsMyProvince, aydinihan, cdsnowbarger, dirtygoldensoul, and macademilk! Please let me know what you thought of this chapter as well, I’d love to hear your thoughts :)
> 
> Also wanted to announce that I think I’m going to do a 12 Days of Christmas series of short drabbles (maybe like 500-1000 words each?) that will be posted as a separate fic (and also on tumblr) if y’all are interested! I have five prompts set so far (“Open it”, “I can’t believe you did that to Santa”, Christmas tree shopping, decorating the Garrison, and First Christmas/“I can’t remember the last time I truly enjoyed Christmas”) but if anyone has any other suggestions feel free to leave them in a comment or send me an ask on tumblr (suethor). I’ll credit you in the oneshot when I post it too!
> 
> Anyhow, thank you again for reading, sorry my author’s notes are getting increasingly longer, and I’ll see you all next time! 
> 
> **Chapter 20** / _Waiting Game_
> 
> "Oh Jesus Christ, Ada," Trixie said, observing the other woman's round stomach. She was so pregnant that it seemed a poorly calculated step might induce labor.
> 
> "Good to see you too," the Shelby girl retorted. "Since we're sisters-in-law now, and all that."


	21. Waiting Game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 20\. listen to this chapter’s soundtrack [here.](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/10PslfkcaZ1pp4I8ARHaof?si=k6fMC1uxRsW5jPcAILj7dA)

" _For the living know that they will die, but the dead know nothing, and they have no more reward, for the memory of them is forgotten."_ —Ecclesiastes 9:5

Tommy lay for several minutes on his bed after Trixie left, trying and failing to understand what the fuck had just happened. All these months with Beatrice and he still wasn't any closer to understanding her. It was not a problem worth worrying about—he'd solved it by exiling her in advance; but the part of him that cared about conquering the world more than conquering Birmingham worried that sweeping her under the rug would do more harm in the long run than good.

If he understood her better, he might know how to deal with the fact that he did not understand her at all, but it was a nonstarter. Tommy sat up and adjusted his trousers, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror. His hair was askew from her hands, his tie crooked. He looked younger than he could remember being, more like the boy that snuck back into the house after a tryst with Greta than the man who could clear a sidewalk by walking down it. "Fuck."

It struck him as odd that Trixie thought of him as someone who would've broken her heart before the war. Her faith was apparent in her apprehension towards certain crimes and her commitment to chastity— _well, supposed commitment to chastity_. Still, despite the naivety he typically expected from people of faith, he couldn't imagine Beatrice as acting a fool.

Tommy tried to remember who he'd been before the trenches. All those years of digging and fucking digging. People in the city might be afraid of him, but he overheard what they said about him. _Tommy Shelby left for France and someone else came back._ Some days, he thought that was fair enough; most days, he took issue with it: as far as he was concerned, nobody came back, just the fucking body. Tommy tried to recall who he'd been before, but could only come up with memories of his mother, the afternoon before she died.

" _Take this,"_ she'd said. In the months since giving birth to Finn, she'd grown gray. In her palm, she offered Tommy her wedding ring, polished and warm to the touch. " _Of all my sons, you're the romantic, you know. You've got a kinder heart."_

" _Mum_ ," he'd objected, inspecting the ring. " _Stop_."

She'd only smoothed his hair back, and he'd let her, though he'd been embarrassed at the time. She told him vaguely of his father's proposal, and the stolen ring, and how he'd slapped a cigarette out of her hand after they'd married, worried it would scuff the gold. She'd been smoking, then, but the ring was in Tommy's hand. " _You'll give it another life, alright, my boy? Give it to that girl you love."_

He knew she meant Greta, even if Greta was dying on the other side of town, but his mother was too far gone to remember those sorts of details. That night, his father had returned to Birmingham in search of the ring, and his mother had been pushed into the Cut. Across town, he gave Greta the ring and they pretended she wasn't dying; two weeks later, her parents returned it to him as she was lowered into the dirt.

 _Give it to that girl you love._ Well—he didn't love Trixie, but he'd needed a ring. He might have let himself feel bad about it, if it wasn't clear that she felt the same. _They_ were the same, like she'd said. Love was a first language they'd both lost somewhere in the fire. Now, Trixie was cold and Tommy was colder, and that sameness felt at times like honesty, but what did it matter, if they hadn't had a choice?

Tommy's reflection stared back at him. _Another life._ No, not another life. Same rotten circumstances, only a second chance. And look what he'd done with it.

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

"Fucking _bacon,"_ Trixie hissed under her breath. She'd spent a bit of time gathering fruits and bread for Ada, and jam, too, but now she was at the butcher in search of chicken for the girl only to find that bacon was on sale.

"Bacon?" the butcher asked, his pencil hovered over the order pad.

Trixie grit her teeth. "Why is it so discounted?"

"We accidentally over ordered," he explained. "We're trying to get rid of it so it doesn't go to waste."

Trixie considered, rocking back on her heels, before nodding. "Alright, then. A pound of bacon, please."

The man nodded, disappearing behind the curtain to the room where the more unsavory work took place. She'd ordered the bacon, yes, but that didn't mean she'd be serving it to Tommy. She wouldn't be serving _anything_ to Tommy—it was already embarrassing enough that she'd let him see her like that.

Shifting the food basket over her other arm, Trixie tried to force the image of Tommy bowing his head between her legs out of her mind. She'd been right, of course, about his talents in that particular field. His movements had been measured and deliberate, his eyes watchful as they always were, and she'd wanted it. She'd wanted him. Maybe she still did, if the persistent weakness in her knees was any indicator.

How was she supposed to go back to that house, later? Just sit down with Polly at the dining room table as if she hadn't humiliated herself only hours earlier? Perhaps Tommy would gloat, or mark it down as another woman he'd conquered—or maybe he would pretend it had not happened at all. It wasn't noteworthy to him, after all. It hadn't been his first.

The butcher exited the curtain, giving Trixie a brief glimpse at the carcasses in the back room, and began bundling the parcels together in the same bag. "Actually—" she interrupted. "Could I have them separately? One is for a friend."

Once she'd tucked them away into her basket, Trixie began making way down to the bathhouse. Her plan had been to get there a bit after Ada usually went, so that the Shelby girl wouldn't see her waiting outside and dodge her, but she was on route to be on time. Trixie slowed her paces and spent more time taking in the cobbled street, despite its decided gloominess. If she couldn't get a clear sky, she'd at least settle for rain to wash the soot off the city.

A young boy on the corner, so frail he might drift away in the wind, held out a cup for coins. "Kid," Trixie called. "Do you have an oven at home?"

He blinked at her, as if he didn't quite understand the question. "My mum does."

"Here," she offered, pulling the package of bacon out of her basket. "You like bacon?"

He nodded, but raised his eyebrow. "You're always with Mr. Shelby," he said warily. "Mum says it's a bad idea to owe men like Mr. Shelby anything."

Trixie shook her head. "It's my bacon, and I'm giving it to you, free. It'll be our secret, alright?" Still looking dubious, he accepted the package. "Now go home. Streets aren't safe for young boys."

After he'd skittered off, Trixie stood up straight and sighed. Sometimes, the smoke over the canal grew so thick she could imagine it was an ocean, with fresh air coming in and ships leaving for better places, but not today. Now, she just found herself staring at the bursts of rubbish fires on the opposite side.

 _You're leaving soon,_ she reminded herself, but the thought only made her feel more dejected. Sure, she was leaving soon, but it wasn't like anything better would be waiting for her. Maybe she ought to ruin her own life here, and squash any of Tommy's hopes for peace with the Lees. Why not?

Ducking into the bathhouse, Trixie made quick work of skimming the occupants for Ada's familiar face. She found the Shelby girl submerged in one of the private tubs, dressed in her underthings, her stomach extremely swollen. She set off towards her, but was cut off by an arm across her stomach.

An older woman with pursed lips stood waiting. "There's a designated time for women like you, dear. Window opens at 7."

"I'm not here to bathe," she said. "I'm here to see her."

"Doesn't matter," the attendant argued, shaking her head. "Come back at 7."

Trixie rolled her eyes. "I don't think I will."

"I don't think it's up to you. Leave now and come back at 7, or the police will escort you out."

"Oh, for Christ's sake," Trixie hissed. "My name is Beatrice Shelby. My husband is Thomas Shelby. Let me by or this building will not _be here_ by 7 tonight. Do you still want to call the police?"

The woman paled, drawing her arm back suddenly. "I'm so sorry, Mrs. Shelby."

"I will cut you if you don't step away from me right fuckin' now," Trixie threatened, though she lacked any sort of blade to follow through.

Nevertheless, the woman skittered away, leaving her path clear. She took a deep breath. Using the Peaky name to protect herself was always helpful, but it had gotten irritating after a while. In fact, if everyone just let her by without giving her _reason_ to invoke her—well, in laws now, she supposed—it would be far preferable. "Is that Engels I see?" she called, her heels echoing around the empty room. Ada shot up in the tub, looking around at the mention of Engels.

"Tri—" Ada started, before cutting herself off. "How the hell did you find me?" she hissed.

Trixie searched for somewhere to sit, and found only the bucket Ada had used to fill the tub. She overturned it and settled atop it, concentrating very hard on maintaining her balance. "Tommy," she answered. "How else?"

Ada rolled her eyes. "I'm leaving now, anyway."

"Wait," Trixie objected, putting a hand on her shoulder. "I have news for you."

"Bigger news than your marriage?" Ada asked. "Congratulations, by the way, since we're sisters-in-law, and all that."

"Thank you," Trixie replied. "We're going to Italy for the honeymoon. Seven nights of love—"

Ada smacked her on the shoulder. " _Please_ stop."

Trixie sighed. "It's about a wedding, but not mine. John's. And it's a real wedding, you know, not like Tommy and I."

" _John?_ " Ada cried. "Who the _fuck_ is marrying John?"

With a snort, Trixie braced one of her hands on the edge of the tub. "The funny thing about that, actually, is that it's up to me who John marries." Ada narrowed her eyes. Trixie glanced around, but figured that the noise of water and women's voices would drown out her words for anyone trying to overhead. "He's engaged to Lizzie Stark. But Tommy's arranged for him to marry one of the Lees to make peace. John doesn't know about that, though." She sighed, remembering Lizzie's words to her. _He's one of my customers_. "I'm supposed to break off the engagement with Lizzie."

"We can't talk here," Ada interrupted. "It's—there's too much. I can barely hear you."

"Where _can_ we talk?"

She glanced around, and sighed. "Help me up, and I'll find us somewhere to go."

Trixie offered her arm as support as Ada pulled her body up, revealing an even more pregnant belly than Trixie had expected. "Jesus fucking Christ," she muttered.

"Yeah, I fucking know," Ada retorted, grunting as she stood up straight. "Hand me my towel, please?"

When she was dried and dressed—in a widow's costume, again, complete with the black veil—Trixie cleared her throat. "You can't tell me anything about where you live, alright? Or where you're staying, or anything like that. That Inspector has his mind set on Freddie, he'll beat the information out of me if he knows I have it."

"No offense, Trixie," said Ada. "But I wasn't going to tell you, anyway."

"No offense, Ada, but you and Tommy are more alike than you think."

Ada's mouth opened, offended, but she said nothing as she led them out of the bathhouse. Trixie found the air outside biting, and couldn't imagine how much worse it was for Ada, with her wet hair. "We have to get inside," Trixie fussed, taking Ada's bag from her. "You'll catch a cold, and you're caring for two now, you know."

"I _know,"_ Ada insisted, leering away from Trixie. "Sorry," she said immediately. "I'm in a bad mood most of the time these days and I'm sexed up the rest of it." Immediately, she flushed, and Trixie wanted to hurry to tell her that it was alright, and she'd done plenty of embarrassing herself on that front today alone. But Trixie did not want to invite anyone else to bear witness to that, and she especially didn't want to tell Tommy's _younger sister_ about what happened. _I almost lost my virginity to your brother earlier this afternoon after finding out that he's been paying your other brother's fiancée for sex for a year._

No. No, that wouldn't work at all.

Feigning self-possessedness, Trixie simply nodded her head and said, "It's understandable."

"And _hungry_ ," Ada added. "Unless I'm nauseous, of course. Then I'm not."

"I brought you food," Trixie offered. "Stopped at the market. Tommy worries the Communists aren't feeding you well enough."

"Do you have bread?" Ada asked.

"I do," said Trixie. "Do you want to eat it on the sidewalk?"

"No," Ada replied. "No, I know somewhere we can go."

Of all the places for Ada to take her, Trixie had not expected the docks. Ada took careful steps down the rocks, her white heels slipping every so often in a way that made Trixie want to drag her back to the stable ground of the shore. "Where are we going?" she asked.

"There's a tunnel down here," Ada called back, pointing up ahead. "I don't know what it used to be, but it's abandoned now."

"And nobody else is going to be in an abandoned tunnel?" Trixie asked dubiously. The Peaky Blinders were the largest and most powerful street gang in Birmingham, but there were younger boys out there keeping busy with pettier crimes. An abandoned tunnel near the docks would be prized territory.

"The only people who used it were me and Freddie," Ada said, leading Trixie inside. It spit them out near the dingy water, and Ada settled with her feet hanging over it. "Here we are."

"Here we are," Trixie agreed, settling down next to her. Her legs were longer than Ada's, but her heels weren't as high, and she only grazed the top of the water. "Bread and jam, yeah? I got strawberry."

"Strawberry's good," Ada said, already tearing a piece of bread off the loaf. She rushed to dip it in the jam, humming with satisfaction as she chewed. "God, that's good. I mean—fuck Tommy, and fuck Polly for trying to run us out of town, but I miss Polly's jam." Ada sighed. "How is everyone? Finn? How's Finn?"

"Finn's good," Trixie replied, tearing off a piece of bread for herself. "He's been going to school, though I doubt he's doing his homework. Arthur's alright, keeps leaking Tommy's plans to the cop who's spying on us."

"Huh," said Ada around a mouthful of bread. "Well, what's all this business about John, then?"

"He's engaged," Trixie explained. "To Lizzie Stark."

"Who's Lizzie Stark?"

"She's one of the brothel girls from Cheapside."

"Why did John want to marry _her?"_

"He says she's good with the kids, I think. And she wants to start typing courses at the technical school, you know, so she can stop that kind of work."

Ada snorted. "And what do you make of all this?"

Trixie sighed. What _did_ she make of all this? Against her better instincts, she did trust that Tommy had devised a plan that would protect them from at least one of the several enemies he'd made for the family, whether that be Campbell, the Lees, or Kimber. But this leverage was hers, and she would cling to it until it became opportune to give it up. "I like Lizzie," she said with a sigh. "But John isn't the only one of your brothers she's had business with, I don't think. She said Tommy was a former customer of hers."

"Stop!" Ada gasped. "That's—oh, I don't want to hear any more about that!"

"There's nothing more to tell," Trixie assured her. "Don't worry. But Tommy wants me to tell John about it so that he'll break off their engagement and Tommy can send him off to marry one of Erasmus Lee's daughters." She coughed. "But John doesn't _know_ about that."

"When are you gonna tell him?"

"I don't know." Trixie took a bite of her bread, and tried to add casually, "I don't know if I will."

Ada gaped at her for a moment, before barking out a short, disbelieving laugh. "Oh God, Trixie. You're a Devil. If anyone was a match for Tommy, it would be you."

The names of the other women in his life immediately came to mind. Greta Jurossi. Lizzie Stark. She was just another name on a list. "I'm supposed to be here to invite you to the wedding."

"Which one?"

"Whichever one happens. Either way, it'll be on Friday."

Ada scowled. "You know I can't come, Trix." She put a hand on her stomach. "For my baby, and Freddie, it's just—too dangerous."

Trixie didn't know if she said it because she was committed to Tommy's orders, or if she meant it as a warning. "Ada. There's something else."

" _How much_ did I miss?"

Taking a deep breath, Trixie said, "I might not see you again after this."

The other woman blinked. "What do you mean?"

Avoiding her eyes, Trixie stared down at a bottle floating down the canal. "I—um, your brother has made arrangements to have me exit the business. Says he'll set me up somewhere out in the country, close enough to visit, but—whenever this copper gets off our backs, I have to leave Birmingham." She flicked a piece of gravel into the water, and watched it disappear. "I don't know what'll happen to you, or if we'll lose touch, but there's a chance this is the last time I'll see you and I want you to know."

For a minute, Ada just surveyed the water, hand still resting atop her pregnant belly. Then, she turned to Trixie and said, " _Absolutely not_."

Then, it was Trixie's turn to be surprised. "What?"

"Tommy can't just—tell _you_ what to do. He can't just make us bend to his will."

"I want this, Ada," Trixie said, but it felt like a lie. "It's—you know—I was content with my life before the war. I got into the business to make ends meet."

"To make ends meet." The distaste in Ada's words was palpable, and Trixie hurried to remedy it.

"It's not that I regret it, Ada, I don't. I would have nothing without you and Polly and—and _John,_ dense as he is. But you're trying to get out. I'm just trying to do the same. I don't want to be a pawn in a game anymore, if it's a game that's not mine to win."

Ada pursed her lips, looking still like she was rather upset, before surprising Trixie by lunging at her. She jumped back on instinct, but Ada wrapped her arms around her anyway, squeezing her in a tight embrace. "Oh my God, Trix. I'm going to miss you so much."

Trixie matched the hug, careful not to press onto Ada's belly. "You are a light, Ada. I love you."

When she pulled away, Trixie saw that Ada was crying. "It's because of the pregnancy," she dismissed. "I'm—oh, Christ." She grabbed Trixie's shoulders and pulled her back into a hug, sobbing into her shoulder. "I wish Tommy hadn't ruined everything. I would've asked you to be godmother."

"Really?" Trixie asked. "I thought religion was the opium of the masses."

"Well, it doesn't need to be religious," Ada dismissed. "I just—" She sniffled and pulled back. "I thought we'd grow up together, you know? Now we're both married and neither of us was at the other's wedding, and I'm having a baby in secret because my _stupid_ brother had to invite an Inspector into the city, and you—you're _leaving_."

"I'll come visit," Trixie swore, even knowing it might not be possible. Even if she did come back, who could say whether or not Ada would be able to come see her without risking the baby's safety? "I'll write letters."

"You swear?" Ada asked. "Swear it to me, Beatrice Price."

"I swear."

Ada sniffled, and rubbed at her eyes. "I love you too, you know."

This time, it was Trixie's turn to cry, and she buried the tears in Ada's shoulder.

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

The light in the kitchen was off when Trixie got home, and she knew that Polly wouldn't be making dinner. She set out the groceries Ada hadn't wanted on the counter. If Polly was out, it only made sense that the boys would be too, especially with how much business had been disrupted by yesterday's nuptials.

Over the hiss of vegetables cooking in the pan, Trixie couldn't hear the door open and shut. All she knew was that one second, she was waiting for her onions to caramelize, and the next, a hand was on her shoulder. Trixie whipped around, lunging immediately for the basket on the counter, where her gun was buried beneath the cabbage.

Tommy's hand was on his own gun by the time she got a grip on her pistol, but he didn't draw it. "It's alright," he soothed, as if she were a wild horse. "It's just me."

"Don't sneak up on me!" she snapped, pointing at him with the gun. He nudged it out of the way gently and Trixie pulled back, setting it down on the countertop. "There's no bacon," she informed him, pointedly. "Good deal at the butcher, so I bought some, but I gave it away."

"You know that's not what I'm here for."

Trixie returned to the stove, attending to her onions with more focus than was probably necessary. "Get me the oil."

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught his look of disbelief—nobody ordered Tommy Shelby around, and he certainly looked out of place in such a domestic setting, but Trixie held the leverage, and she would use it. He bent down to the bottom shelf of the cabinet, retrieving a bottle of olive oil, and passed it to her. "Beatrice," he said, like he was warning her.

"I'm in a better mood after I've eaten," she said. "Perhaps you want to take that into consideration before we enter negotiations."

Tommy pursed his lips, but relented. While Trixie continued her cooking, he mulled around the house. He was home too early—so was she, to be fair, but her workday usually didn't bleed far past five. He, on the other hand, did most of his legitimate business by day, while managing his illicit affairs by night. There was nothing to retire early for; the man didn't sleep.

"Don't you have work?" she called.

There was no response, and she thought he might have left, or been in another room, ignoring her. But he returned to the kitchen a moment later, missing his blazer and his tie, holding the paper in his hand. "What?"

"Don't you have work," she repeated.

Tommy shrugged and cleared his throat. "Took the evening off. Don't recall needing your permission for that."

"You don't," said Trixie, scooping the food from the pan onto her plate. "It was a question, Tommy."

"Business can't move forward until I know how you're handling things," he stated, tossing the paper down onto the table. "Where's my plate?"

Trixie blinked as she pulled the chair out. "I didn't move it."

"Not enough for me?" he asked, gesturing to her own dinner.

Was he serious? He'd spent twenty-nine years coming up with dinner without her help, and now, a day after their fucking wedding, he'd somehow forgotten how to cook? "Make your own," she said, slicing into the chicken on her plate. "Or hire a maid, if you want someone to do your cooking for you. But it's not my job."

Now he squinted at her in disbelief, rubbing at his bottom lip with his thumb. Trixie ate, ignoring his stare, until he relented with a shrug and a concessional, "Alright."

"So," she said. "Business you want to take care of."

"Yes," he answered, irritated. "John. You'll tell him?"

Trixie pointed at him with her knife. "Let's talk business before we talk family. Your plan is to go legitimate, yeah? Legitimate betting, legitimate races. The successor to Kimber's throne."

He pointedly brushed over the last part. "Legitimate, yeah."

"Right. And ownership—it'll be divided between you, John, Arthur, and Polly, right?"

"Correct."

"Twenty-five each? Or are you chief owner?"

His face twitched, like her cheekiness might cause him to flip the table. "Twenty-seven me," he said carefully. "Twenty-four for the others. Was I supposed to ask your permission for that, too?"

Trixie took her time chewing on her food and washing it down with water. "You don't need permission, Tommy. Thought that was your philosophy. Take because you can, barter for what you can't." She smiled. " _Think of what you could have if you weren't worried about the stray bullets of a war that's yours to win._ " He seemed unamused by her quotation, so Trixie moved on. "Anyway, when I leave, I want ownership in the company. Minority ownership. Ten percent, and executive voting rights."

"There will be no voting rights. It's a company, not a democracy."

"Then I want fifteen percent."

He stood up, nearly knocking his chair back. Trixie continued eating, until he returned to the table and braced his hands on it. "Five percent, voting rights."

She grinned. "Ten percent."

"If you want ten, you don't get a vote."

"Ten percent. Voting rights."

Tommy sat back down. "Eight."

"And a vote?"

"No."

" _Yes_ ," she disagreed. "Eight percent, voting rights, or you can look forward to Lizzie Stark as your sister-in-law. Got it?"

She trusted that Tommy hadn't actually needed a reminder of the stakes, but he seemed to reconsider nonetheless. "Fine," he said. "We'll write up a contract. You get eight. Poll and the others get twenty-two, I get twenty-six. In exchange, you tell John about Lizzie. _Tonight._ Wedding's on Friday. Deal?"

Trixie set her fork down. "Deal."

Their hands met across the table, clasped to seal the deal, and Trixie was suddenly hit with the memory of gripping his hand earlier that day while he laved his tongue over her clit. She yanked her arm back and sat back down. He watched her for a moment as she ate, and she considered offering him some of her food—not out of spousal obligation, but kindness—but just as the thought occurred to her, he backed his chair up and went to the coat rack. She made an effort not to watch as she shrugged his overcoat on and placed his hat atop his head, but she did wonder, vaguely, where he was going.

Before she could ask, he'd disappeared out the door. Trixie pushed her plate away, no longer hungry. All she could do was wait for John to return home.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hello! Thank you so much for reading :) and shoutout to Stephanie for betareading this chapter! We're almost done with Episode 4 and then we're going to see Trixie and Tommy unlocking new and unheard of levels of emotional vulnerability, which I'm very excited for. Next up, we've got John's wedding, Ada's baby, and the aftermath of both for the family.
> 
> Thank you so much to **Shariebery, 221BB, macademilk, SympathyForTheBlinderDevil, JMBH, lmenin, SpecialAgentFiction, Elena, ferallahey, Eunhasoojs, kkocmoc, cdsnowbarger Missingartist, oOlive, alytavzla, regulusblackbitch, Grace, Shareece, and dirtygoldensoul** for all the love on the last chapter! I’m so happy to hear that you all enjoyed it, and please let me know what you thought of this one as well. 
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone to voted and commented last chapter, and for those who shared their thoughts on the cover poll! Mistletoe & Holly is now up on my profile and (while I am delayed on updating) I will be posting a new part tonight :) I'll see you all next chapter! 
> 
> **Chapter 21** / _Til Death Do Us Part_
> 
> "You ought to settle down next," Trixie teased, trying not to jump at the way Tommy's hands tightened around her waist. While the rest of the wedding party skipped and spun, they were left swaying, Trixie still not much of a dancer.
> 
> "Maybe I will," he retorted, like it was even a possibility.


	22. Til Death Do Us Part

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's some mature content in this chapter!
> 
> listen to this chapter’s soundtrack [here.](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/354DWnGXVLaqZgWUv8JImO?si=OXhn_x0VQWizOv8oJ8rQNA)

* * *

" _Let marriage be held in honor among all."_ —Hebrews 13:4

* * *

Another day, another wedding. Trixie was running out of dresses nice enough for these sorts of occasions, and Tommy's assurance did little to quell her worries. "John doesn't know it's a wedding, no need to dress like it."

"You wear a three-piece suit to the stables, Tommy," she'd snarled in return. "I'm hardly gullible enough to be tricked into underdressing for the occasion."

Now, though, as they approached the Lee territory, John amped for a fight and the rest of the Peakys pleasantly boozed-up for the ceremony, Trixie felt silly in the dress she wore, an emerald-green thing she'd gotten the day before from a seamstress in the Chinese quarter.

 _It was the polite thing to do,_ she told herself. And anyway, Tommy was in a suit she'd never seen before, one that fit him so well that looking away became a challenge. She'd done the coward's thing and avoided him in the days since their negotiations, but now a confrontation was inevitable. She could tell on his face that he meant to have words with her, and Tommy was too accustomed to getting what he wanted to give up so easily. If only they wanted the same things; then she might be able to understand the deathless lack of fear among the rest of the gang.

"Ready, boys?" he asked, hands in his pockets. "John, ready?"

"Yeah, I'm ready." John clapped Beatrice on the shoulder and gestured to her gown. "Christ, Trix, you're not getting into a fight with that thing on."

"I'm here to seduce Erasmus," she deadpanned.

"Bloody likely," John laughed.

Arthur stuck his arm up between the two of them, extending a bottle in John's direction. "Have a drink," he invited.

As John sipped from the bottle, the rest of the boys eyed him nervously. No doubt John would be mad, but he had to go through with this anyway. Since Trixie had sabotaged Lizzie, and Esme was already in her veil somewhere in one of the Lee wagons, they didn't have any other option. "What the fuck's everybody staring at me for?" John demanded when the bottle parted with his lips. "What?"

"'S nothing," Trixie dismissed. "We're just waiting for a sip ."

He shoved it her way, not quite buying the excuse.

"Alright," said Tommy. "Let's go."

Up the cobblestone hill, a group of Lees Trixie recognized from the shop raid patrolled the territory's border, rifles at their hips. A woman in a pretty blue dress led a horse up the street, eyeing them carefully. Even with all the arrangements that had been prepared into making this day happen, Trixie felt tense. As though they were one misstep away from getting strung up and shot, or trapped like prey animals. "What's your plan, Tommy?" John mumbled. "We're at a shotgun's distance now."

Tommy slowed, and put a hand on John's shoulder. "John," he said. "Before you go into battle, there's something you're going to need. He reached for his pocket but, instead of a weapon, he found a white-rosed boutonniere. The rest of the men pulled theirs out too, Arthur making a conspicuous effort to wave his in front of John's face tauntingly.

"What are you bloody doing, Tommy?" John blanched. Trixie patted him on the shoulder, while Tommy took his face in his hands.

"Smile, John," he instructed. "It's a wedding."

"Whose bloody wedding?" John asked, but even he seemed to know the answer.

"Now, if we'd told you, you wouldn't have come," Tommy explained. "There's a girl in the Lee family who's gone a bit wild, and she needs marrying off."

John took a breath, half gasp and half disbelieving laugh, before shoving Tommy off of him. "Ah, _fuck!"_ he shouted, pushing up against the wall of men that gathered to corral him. Trixie stumbled on her heel, tripping backwards into Tommy's grip, and he sent her a rather serious look as he set her aside and moved back to his brother.

"John!" he barked.

"You have _no bloody right,_ Tommy!"

Tommy pressed his forehead to John's, hushing him as if he were a racehorse gone mad, same as he'd done to Trixie the other day. "Listen to me. John, listen to me. A girl who needs a husband, a man who needs a wife."

"Tommy," John said, eerily calm. "I'm not bloody _marrying_ some _fucking mushroom picker."_ He fisted a hand in his older brother's collar and a half-dozen hands shot out to pull him away from the city's crown prince.

"John boy, come on," Tommy instructed, unfazed. " _Listen."_ Trixie had learned somewhere along the way not to doubt Tommy's abilities, but she still questioned how he planned on persuading John into this marriage. He grew quiet; gentle. "I've already betrothed you. So if you back out now, there's gonna be one fucking mighty war breaking out here that's gonna make the Somme look like a fucking tea party."

Memories of the war seemed to chill John to his bones, and he stopped the wild thrashing around. "Tommy—" he started.

"If you marry her, our family and the Lee family will be united forever, and this war will be over. It's up to you, John. War or peace?"

He hesitated for such a long moment that Trixie realized she'd been holding her breath. "Let go of me," he said finally, pushing Scudboat off his back and stalking right past Tommy, towards Beatrice. He handed her his hat and kept on stoically. It had been a success, or something like it. Trixie clutched the cap in her hand, flipping the brim up curiously to inspect the razor blades, before shrugging and putting it on her own head. Just to see how it felt. A bloody crown. A war hers to win.

The Lees were cautious as the rest of the Shelbys arrived, filing into the chairs that had been set out. After they'd settled in their seats, Trixie spotted the man who had cut her and reached up to run her thumb along her cheek before she could stop herself. Tommy noticed, of course, and took her wrist in his hand. "What," she demanded.

He rolled his eyes, and reached into his jacket pocket again, this time finding another white rose, this one sewn to a ribbon. "Family wears flowers," he simply said, tying the corsage around her wrist. His hands weren't as cold as she'd grown accustomed to them being. Tommy burned like a fever, like an iron rod prodding the delicate skin of her wrist. "Don't touch the scar."

"Don't tell me what to do," she snapped, though her words lost their edge as she admired the rose, crowned by baby's breath. "You'll get me flowers for John's wedding, but not my own, hm?"

"Do you want flowers, Beatrice?"

She recalled when he'd asked if she wanted a kiss, so much fonder then than he was now. "No," she said. She only meant to be difficult. "I don't care for flowers, not when they die so quickly."

Tommy sent her an amused look, and then said, "We need to talk."

"I'm not sure that we do," she replied. "Anyway, it's your brother's wedding day."

"Oh, come on. John's not holding the damn day as sacred, he won't blame you if you do the same."

"What do you want to talk about, anyway?" Trixie demanded. "I thought all our business was settled."

"It's not business," Tommy returned through gritted teeth. "I need—"

He shut up suddenly, and Trixie followed his line of sight to where Ada was shuffling through the crowd, belly somehow bigger than it had been the last time they'd talked. "Am I late?" she asked, her question very pointedly directed to Trixie.

"Nice of you to come, Ada," Tommy greeted.

"I'm not here for you," she snapped.

"You're not late," Trixie said. "The bride hasn't come out yet."

"You look well," Tommy continued.

"Shut up," said Ada, dropping her purse onto the chair beside Trixie's, spinning to face her. "Who's he marrying?"

"Her name's Esme," said Trixie. "Erasmus' youngest daughter."

Ada shrugged. "How is she?"

"I don't know," Trixie replied. "I've never met her."

"Ada," said Tommy. "We have to talk.

"Tell Tommy I don't have anything to say to him," Ada instructed Trixie.

Trixie blinked, and looked over her shoulder. "Ada says she has nothing to say to you," she relayed, trying to mask her smile with a scowl. "I'm going to start charging per message," she scolded. "You're too old, both of you." With that, she pushed past Ada and moved up a row, between Curly and Scudboat. "Can I sit?" she asked, and sat down before they could answer. Scudboat made room for her anyway, and she focused her attention on the ceremony.

"She's here," Curly announced, elbowing Trixie. "Look, she's coming."

"She is," Trixie agreed, watching as the veiled woman took her spot at John's side, kneeling on the bench. Johnny Dogs stood before them, his bible in hand.

"We are here today," he said, "to join in matrimony this man and this woman, so they can live a life of truth, and harmony, and togetherness." He gestured between John and Esme. She pushed her veil up over her head, the lace giving way to a crown of dark hair and sly visage. "Which is sanctioned and honored by the presence and the power of these two families around us."

"She's pretty, she is," said Curly at Trixie's side.

"She is," Trixie agreed again. "Smart, too, I've heard."

John turned his head, searching for Trixie in the crowd and smirking when he met her eyes. "Do you, John Michael Shelby, take Esme Martha Lee to be your beautiful wife? To have, to hold, in sickness and health, until death do you part?"

She strained to hear his reply over the noise of Ada and Tommy's heated whispers behind her. He seemed to answer in the affirmative, because Johnny continued with the vows, turning to Esme. When she'd answered, Erasmus stepped forward to pass a dagger to John. A dagger? There'd been no daggers at Trixie's own wedding.

"There remains one more part of the ceremony," he announced. "That's the mingling of the two bloods."

John extended his hand, as if he'd known this was coming, and Johnny Dogs drew the blade across his palm. When Esme had done the same, the couple clasped hands, fingers interlaced, bound now by more than legal code or family honor.

"I now pronounce you man and wife!" said Johnny, and John flashed one more grin over his shoulder, before leaning in and stealing a kiss off of Esme's lips. When she turned her head, her beauty was even more apparent in the swell of her cheekbone and the glint in her eyes. She was trouble for the Lees, maybe, but trouble wasn't always a bad thing as far as the Peaky Blinders were concerned.

Trixie joined in the applause as she turned to check on Ada and Tommy. They were smiling now, the animosity faded—or at least momentarily put on hold—and Trixie felt for the first time that the Shelbys were a family in a real sense, and one that she belonged to. A fist encircled her heart, squeezing hard, and she jerked her eyes back to John and Esme at the altar. Her wedding had come and gone. Today was for John.

* * *

The sun fell somewhere below the horizon as the ceremony came to a close, and Trixie's efforts to escape were met with a grip on her arm. Tommy. "We need to talk," he insisted, voice a low rumble. She yanked her arm away.

"I disagree," Trixie murmured, smiling broadly at Ada in the distance and lifting her hand to try and wave her down, only for Tommy to seize her wrist again.

"Beatrice," he said, and she smothered a shiver. The way he said it felt taunting, like a reminder that he knew her name, like, _I am possessing some part of you. You will remember me, whether you like it or not. We are bound to each other._ Names were serious business—and a name in the mouth of a man like Thomas Shelby either meant love or certain death.

"Fine," she conceded. "You have ten minutes."

Satisfied, he shifted his hand to her waist and guided her past the barricades of people, out to the encampments of caravans, now deserted by wedding guests, all the way to the wall bordering Lee territory.

"Are you going to kill me?" she asked.

"No."

"Any other reason you're taking me to the darkest fucking corner of this place?"

"I'm not trying to kill you," he said, which was the answer to a very different question than the one she'd asked. "I just need to talk to you alone."

"Thought we were uniting the Shelbys and the Lees," she muttered. "Are you meant to keep secrets from family?" It occurred to her that she'd done most of the talking, when Tommy was the one to ask for her time in the first place. She shut her mouth resolutely and waited for him to explain himself, but he just paused by the wall and pulled his cigarette tin out.

"Beatrice," he said, tab in his mouth, and she fished in her purse for a lighter before he could ask. "You never fucked anyone before, right?"

Humiliation burned in her stomach almost instantly. "What the fuck!"

"It's a question."

She pressed her back to the wall to give herself an excuse not to meet his eyes. Tommy seemed to have expected that, and waited patiently, the sounds of his breath the only noise. Somewhere, further out, his family was celebrating, cheering, laughing, drinking to new love and beginnings. Meanwhile, all Trixie had to keep her company was a cloud of smoke and a man who seemed set on burning her to ash.

He knew the answer, was the worst part of the fucking question. What did he want by asking? _To humiliate her._ An assertion of power. Perhaps he was upset about their negotiations. Trixie narrowed her eyes and swore to herself that she would not answer. "Give me your cigarette," she said, and Tommy handed it over lazily.

Instead of taking it for herself, Trixie flicked it aside and caught his face in her hands, leaning up on her toes and kissing him firmly on the mouth. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she registered that her purse had gone flying, but it didn't much matter, because Tommy was holding her waist like a lifeline and sidestepping her to press her flat against the wall. Their mouths, wet, pressed together, pinched and pulled, smacks echoing against the wall, loud in the dark and quiet, all Trixie could manage to process in the dark.

She realized then that her eyes had never closed, and she was staring straight at Tommy, his own eyes glued shut as his hand found her breast, rolling her nipple under his thumbs, the silk of her dress falling away at his touch. Her lips faltered, and he returned his hand to the small of her back. Polite. Gentlemanly. "Beatrice," he whispered.

Names were serious business. Names were dangerous business, in the mouth of a man like Thomas Shelby, and it was suddenly very unsafe to be kissing him like this, any kind of tender and sweet.

He pulled back and pressed his lips chastely to her brow bone, and then to her cheek. "You're cold."

She shoved him back. "What the fuck are you doing?"

Tommy stumbled, his strength rendered useless by surprise. "What—"

"Don't _do that_ ," she snapped, drawing away from him and bending over for her purse. _Don't do what?_ Lovers might not owe each other honesty, but partners certainly did, and Tommy had no business touching her like she mattered to him. _Don't lie to me._

"Alright," he said, and she could tell that he was struggling to even his breaths. "Are you alright?"

"Don't do _that!"_ she hissed. Realizing how little sense she was making, Trixie raked a hand over her face. "Fuck. Christ."

"Right," said Tommy, unamused. "Are you having a _fucking stroke?"_

She screwed her eyes shut, tuning him out. "Don't talk to me like that."

He put his hands on her shoulders. "Beatrice."

" _Trixie,"_ she corrected, knowing it was futile.

"Have you lost your bloody mind?"

His eyes were dark, no nearby fire to swallow and throw back at her. If the Tommy she'd grown accustomed to was cold as ice, this one burned to the touch. She wouldn't be surprised to find his palms seared into her skin where he touched her, two great weights pressing her closer to the floor. She shrugged him off. "I'm fine. You want to know if I've ever fucked anyone, Tommy? I haven't. You're the only person who touched me like that. Fucking happy? You've got a kingdom and a girl to conquer."

"Stop it," he snapped, reaching for her wrists. "That's not why I asked."

"You _knew the answer!"_ she shouted. "Do not _lie to me,_ Tommy. This doesn't work if you lie to me."

"I never lied to you," he growled, putting his index finger to her clavicle and pushing her back against the wall. "I was fucking asking if you were alright, Beatrice."

She stopped thrashing long enough for him to catch her hands. "What?"

"You said before you wanted it to be someone you loved," he reminded her, his voice softening as the words fell out of his mouth. "Do you regret it?"

Trixie clenched her jaw, and debated saying _yes_ just to be cruel about the whole thing, but she supposed that it would come off as disingenuous given that she'd thrown herself at him only moments ago. "There's nothing to regret. We don't mean anything to each other. It doesn't count. You don't count."

"Alright," he muttered, stepping back, rubbing his thumb at his jaw.

"Alright," Trixie repeated, eager to sound as if she had any clue what she was doing. She scratched a patch on her wrist that wasn't otherwise particularly itchy, and debated leaving for the wedding reception. She was hungry and cold, but something had looped around her ankle and kept her anchored to the spot against the wall. "Do you regret it?" she asked, realizing that it was a possibility that this was his attempt at rejecting her.

"Nothing to regret," he said.

"Fair enough," she mumbled. "I ought to ask for another bedroom in my house, for your trouble."

He looked up at her under the shadow of his lashes, almost pained. "Don't talk to me about the house right now."

"House was your fucking idea," she muttered. He hadn't liked her joke, after all.

He hissed in a breath, dipping his head back and letting his eyes slide shut. Tommy's pensive pauses were nothing new, but after a few minutes had passed without him moving, Trixie cleared her throat.

"Tommy," she said, some force beyond her control shoving her towards caring. "It'll be alright. You've solved it with the Lees, you'll soon be through with Kimber, and then you can deal with those guns. It'll be over."

When he looked at her, he was somehow more alive and more dead than she'd ever seen. Was this how he was before the war? Was this the ghost of the man she'd just missed? "I'd tell you where the guns are if I didn't think it would get you killed."

Trixie wasn't sure what to make of that, so she reached out a hand and rested it on the side of his face. His skin was unbearably cold. "You don't need to tell me," she said, not so much a consolation as a desire not to die. "Let's go back," she offered.

"In a minute."

"Right."

They sat in the quiet dark, Trixie shivering against the wind in her pretty emerald dress, wishing she'd worn something more practical for the weather. She only faintly understood what had just happened between the two of them, and didn't even trust her findings that much. Things would never be simple so long as she stayed here; she might as well get started on wanting the unavoidable future.

The hand that had gripped her heart so forcefully before was quick to object, taking her into a bruising hold that almost had her cry out. Oh, the things she had taught herself to want; the hold she had to learn to loosen. Trixie sighed, and imagined herself in the country, married to a kind man, carrying his child. Poor husband of hers; Trixie struggled to imagine a man who could withstand her coldness.

Wordlessly, Tommy extended his arm. Trixie took his hand in hers, recalled John and Esme's blood ritual, and followed him back to the light.

* * *

Pleasantly drunk, Trixie didn't think very hard about it when Tommy turned to her and said, "We ought to dance."

"Alright," she'd replied with a shrug.

She was still not much of a dancer; maybe even worse than she'd been before. After a few minutes attempting to mimic the quick steps of the other couples on the floor, Tommy had given up and let her just sway against him. His jacket smelled of cigarettes and pine, and she rested her cheek against the breast pocket to get closer to it.

"We never did the mingling of the blood," she said, muffled by the fabric.

He managed to understand. "You wouldn't have wanted that."

He was right, but she was a contrarian. "How do you know what I want?"

"What would you have wanted, then?"

Trixie considered. "A real dress. A pretty veil. Dessert wine and a big dinner. A cat."

"A cat?" he said. "At the wedding."

"Maybe I just want a cat."

"Alright."

"What do you want?" she asked. "Big floral arrangements? A fucking waltz?"

He didn't laugh, but she could hear the rumble of its beginnings in his chest. "Yeah," he said. "Live orchestra, fireworks."

"You'd ride in on a horse, if you had it your way," she said, willing herself the strength to pull back and look him in the eye. "Tell me I'm wrong."

"You're wrong," he said. "Wouldn't want a horse in the fuckin' house."

"You want a horse somewhere in the ceremony," she amended. "And a pretty blonde wife who'll wait around while you're off winning a crown for her. Cook you dinner." Before she could dwell on it, Trixie laughed. "It's a miracle that there've been three Shelby weddings in the last few months and nobody's gotten shot."

He put his thumb on the scar on her face. "You almost got shot."

"Not at a wedding, though."

"There's still time," he warned, casting a glance over her shoulder, but all Trixie saw were circles of dancers, children running and playing, glasses being filled and emptied and filled. Nobody here was in a state to shoot at a moving target, and all the targets were moving. Except her, she supposed. And Tommy, but Tommy wasn't the kind of man who died, much as he set his mind to it.

"Where are the rest of you?" Trixie asked. "I have a feeling that if anyone were going to cock a gun, it'd be a Shelby."

"John and Esme are dancing," he said, turning them so that Trixie could see. She pushed up on her toes and found John and Esme spinning in circles, impossibly fast, elbows linked. If one of them slipped, the other would go flying, but they were knotted together. Trixie didn't feel as guilty for what she'd done now, not when he looked so fucking happy. Maybe it really made no difference who John married; maybe he was just lonely.

"I see Arthur," she observed. "He and Johnny Dogs are in a drinking contest." She raised an eyebrow as Arthur poured the remaining contents of his mug onto his own face, shouting as he went. "And—"

"Polly," Tommy interrupted.

"Where's Polly?"

"Here." Trixie turned and nearly burned herself on the tip of the woman's cigarette.

"Christ, you scared me," Trixie gasped.

"It's not me you should worry about," Poll said, pointing with her tab at where Ada and one of the Lee boys were shouting and twirling. Her toe caught on the cobblestone and she nearly tripped, but Ada merely laughed it off. "She needs to slow down."

"You think she's gonna listen to me?" Tommy retorted.

"Well I tried, but she's been drinking. She's going off like a bloody firecracker," Polly hissed. "And can you blame her? Locked up in that basement for weeks."

" _Whoo!"_ Ada cheered, her hand slipping from the Lee boy's and sending her spinning out on her own.

"Oh, Christ, somebody please stop her."

"I can try," Trixie volunteered. She took a deep breath, hoping the cold air would sober her enough to carry the conversation, but the drinking and dancing had made the whole area suddenly humid. She didn't really have a choice, though, so—sober or not, she approached Ada, plastering on a smile that was passably cheery and putting a hand on her back. "Ada!"

The Thorne girl beamed. "Oh, Trixie! Let's dance, come on." She hooked her elbow into Trixie's and took off, sending Trixie stumbling. Normally, Ada might have a slight advantage in terms of strength, but with the weight of her pregnant belly, it was an unwinnable battle. Trixie sent a panicked look in Tommy's direction as she half-heartedly matched Ada's steps, but it was impossible to keep up.

"Ada, come on, have a rest," Tommy interrupted. "Sit down, eh?"

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Tommy." Ada stopped, to Trixie's relief, but started shouting instead. "Take a look, Esme!" she hollered. "Come and look at the family you've joined!"

John stood up, pushing Esme behind him. He approached Ada with the caution that one might use when approaching a bomb.

"Look at the man who runs it!" Ada continued. "He chooses his brother's wives for them, and forces his accountant to marry him, just so he can ship her off in the middle of _bloody_ nowhere."

Trixie soured at the mention of her name, and tried to step in front of Ada. "Ada, please—"

She was unmoved, shoving Trixie out of the way so she could slap Tommy on the chest. "Hunts his own sister down like a rat, and he _tries to kill his own brother-in-law!"_

Tommy put his hands in the air, taking one step back for every Ada's pace forward. "Ada," Trixie repeated. "Ada, stop."

Arthur and Polly echoed the sentiment, each grabbing onto one of her arms while Trixie again stepped between Tommy and his sister. "And now, after all that, he won't even let me have a fucking dance." A tremor ran through her body, and Trixie thought she might sob, until something wet hit her shoes. Her first thought, shamefully, was to wonder if Ada had somehow _pissed on her,_ before Polly gasped.

"Holy shit." Polly pressed a gloved hand over her open mouth. "Water."

"Not now, Ada!" Arthur moaned.

"Bloody hell," John snapped. "You do pick your times."

"Alright," Trixie interrupted. "Both of you, shut up."

"She's having a baby on _my fucking wedding day,"_ John squawked.

Trixie rolled her eyes, wrapping one arm around Ada's back. "You didn't know it was your wedding day until three fucking hours ago. And Ada can't very well hold the damn thing in until midnight." Beside her, Ada winced in pain. It would be too far to walk her back to the doctor. "Get the car," she ordered Tommy. "Go. Quick."

Perhaps Tommy was not in the business of taking orders, but the series of events had momentarily stunned him to the point that he took off running. "Ah, _fuck!"_ Ada grunted, her grip tightening around Trixie's hand.

"Come on," Polly said, sidling up to Ada's other side. "Let's get you home."

"It's not my fucking home anymore," Ada snapped.

"Do you want to give birth right here, then?"

"Enough," Trixie objected. "Let's go."

* * *

After Polly had dragged Ada inside, contractions wracking her body and sending her shrieking for most of the car ride to the house, it was just Tommy and Trixie outside, waiting for John to arrive with Esme in the new car Erasmus had given him.

"Shouldn't you be helping?" Tommy asked.

"I know fuck-all about babies." Trixie tapped the end of her cigarette; ash floated down to the street. "It's better for everyone if I'm out here."

John's tires squeaked as he rounded the corner, almost drowned out entirely by the sound of Arthur's shouting. "Slow her up!" he ordered. "There you go, nice and easy."

Trixie doubted that Arthur knew anything about cars, since he seemed to live in the realm of drunkenness that made driving unacceptable, but men and their egos were a force. There were bigger things to worry about now, anyway, with Ada's pained cries drifting out the window. She wished she could help, honestly, but the car sickness from the drive was clinging to her stomach, and Trixie feared she might vomit if she had to pull a human out of another human, and she assumed that that would make the whole ordeal much worse.

"Story of your fucking life, Arthur," John guffawed.

She wished they would stop wasting time and get on with it. Even if Trixie knew nothing about birth, Esme had mentioned on the trip to the cars that she'd helped deliver a half-dozen babies, and Polly would need all the help she could get. She decided to say as much. "Get on with it, boys!" she shouted.

"Nice car, John," Tommy remarked, and Trixie elbowed him.

"Enough about the car," she snapped. "Hi, Esme."

"Hello," Esme said, smiling nervously. She was still in her white dress, but had bunched the skirt up in her hand so she could hurry inside. When she disappeared into the house, Trixie turned to the Shelby boys and frowned.

"Ada's giving birth, and you won't stop thinking about the fucking car?"

John shrugged. "Not much us men can do now."

Trixie cast another glance up at the window. "What about Freddie?" she asked. "A man deserves to be there for the birth of his child, politics and ambitions aside."

Arthur and John seemed to retreat, leaving Tommy to answer. After a moment of hesitation, he acquiesced. "Fine." He inspected the street once and continued, "Truce until sunrise. We'll phone Freddie at the Garrison and tell him it's safe."

Trixie nodded. Satisfied, Arthur and John set off towards the Garrison while Tommy held back to keep in step with her. "Careful," she warned. "Or word will get out that there's a heart in that chest of yours."

"Anyone who believes that is mistaken," said Tommy, like a promise. "And those are the types of mistakes that get men killed."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome back! this chapter was such a blast to write, i love seeing trix and tommy hash out their issues and struggle to communicate, but as we move into episode five i promise we will see them beginning to understand each other a bit better and move towards something that they both see is real. it's gonna hurt! but it's gonna be fun too
> 
> now that i'm on winter break, i have a lot more time open for writing and i'm hoping to make serious progress on this fic before next semester, so hopefully i can have updates coming out a bit faster over the next month or so. in the mean time, i want to thank everyone who reviewed the last chapter: **Shareece, itsvioletttt, Elena, Ameliejhene, cdsnowbarger, macademilk, oOlive, 221BB, eunhasoojs, dirtygoldensoul, Kyra, JMBH,** and **PoppycockIsMyProvince**. and thank you Stephanie for taking the time to beta this chapter !
> 
> thank you so much for reading and please let me know what you thought :) i will see you next time!
> 
>  **Chapter 22** / _Wanted Man_
> 
> "I never lied to you," Tommy swore. "And I'm not lying to you now."


	23. Wanted Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 22\. listen to this chapter’s soundtrack [here.](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1Dbt5FTeLut1XqfV8mHzQV?si=LrrdkyTfSO-arTyzu8L0FQ)

* * *

" _A false witness will not go unpunished, and he who breathes out lies will not escape."_ —Proverbs 19:5

* * *

Tommy made the call, and maybe that's why Trixie didn't catch it sooner. When the four had arrived at the Pub, she had split off with Arthur and John to the private room, while Tommy busied himself reaching out to Freddie's contacts to find him and tell him the news.

"Some bloody day," John sighed, sinking down into the booth and looking at Trixie contentedly. "Do you still have my hat?"

"It's in Tommy's car," she said, though she wasn't sure how true that was. At some point between the ceremony, a brick wall at the far end of Lee territory, and the reception, it may have gotten lost. Well—John would live; God knew the Peaky Blinders weren't suffering a hat shortage. "I'll get it tomorrow," she said, though she knew it was lost, more likely than not. "So. You're married. Congratulations, John."

"Yeah, thanks," he said. "I like Esme. I think we're a good match."

"I'm glad," Trixie told him. Though she didn't say it, it was clear they were both thinking of Lizzie, and how she'd been swapped out at the last minute for another bride so that Tommy could protect his best interests. Ada's rant may have been poorly timed, but she hadn't been entirely wrong about anything. Either way, it was too late to back out now, so she just leaned back to make room for Grace to drop off their drinks at the table.

Arthur clapped John on the shoulder. "She's not bad to look at either, eh, John boy?"

John snorted, and Trixie rolled her eyes. Lifting one of the glasses of gin, she announced, "A toast. To John. God willing, the streets will be safer now that he's settled down."

"To Ada," John added. "Ada and that fuckin' baby of hers."

"Cheers," Arthur declared, at the same time Trixie said, "Baby's not even born yet, and you're already cursing it." Even so, she threw back her drink with the rest of them and sighed to herself, satisfied. The day had been a long series of gambles that had mostly paid off, but she was still tired to the bone, and wanted desperately to collapse onto her pillow and dream of sweeter things than racetracks and labor. When she caught Tommy watching her from the doorway, it felt like something in her chest calmed and settled. Suddenly, it was easier to be in this room, with boisterous men riding the high of a new car, a new woman, a new allegiance. He took a seat beside her and the world grew quiet, the only audible sounds the rustle of his jacket against her own.

"What are we drinking, boys?" he asked, taking a glass for himself and downing it before anyone could answer.

"Whisky," said John.

"Good choice." He turned to Trixie. "You?"

"Gin," she answered, reaching for another glass, this time with the intention of savoring it. "How was it?"

Tommy nodded. "Good. He'll be there."

"Tommy Shelby, Diplomat," Arthur mocked.

She couldn't help but snort at that, looking up at Tommy to see his reaction. Rather than his usual sour expression, he seemed genuinely amused, eyes brightening with his smile. Trixie swallowed and pulled her eyes away, worried that if she spent too long looking she might not be able to stop.

"Since when does the Garrison have a fuckin' phone, anyway?" John asked, rolling his glass between his palms on the table.

"Grace put it in," Arthur explained. "The barmaid."

Trixie raised an eyebrow. "Grace? Did Harry ask her to put one in?"

Arthur answered with a shrug. "I don't know. Was here before I got here."

It was possible that Harry had asked for the installation of a phone, since more and more Birmingham businesses were carrying them and those who didn't were setting themselves up for failure. But Grace had a compelling interest to get a phone installed, too, and Trixie didn't trust Harry's business sense enough to ignore that fact entirely.

 _It's probably nothing,_ she assured herself. Grace couldn't have been listening in on the call, she was busy with their drinks at the time. And Tommy wouldn't be stupid enough to get himself caught like that, either. She let her eyes shut for a moment, taking a breath to calm herself, and then let out a groan as she leaned her head against Tommy's shoulder. "It's been a day," she announced.

"It's been a _good_ day," John echoed.

"It's been a long day," she corrected. "But yeah, good too. Since you got a wife out of it and all."

"Any marriage advice?" John teased. "Since you're such a happy couple."

Straightening, Trixie rested an elbow on the table. "Get to know the family, I guess," she suggested. "Don't make my mistake. They might be a bunch of fucking maniacs, and you'll be stuck drinking with them on an otherwise perfectly fine Friday evening."

Below the table, a foot collided with her shin and Trixie hissed. "Hey!" John snapped, clearly biting back a smile. "You knew _us_ first. Tommy only decided to get over himself a few months ago."

"Fair point they're making, dearest," Trixie told Tommy. "Do you have anything?"

Tommy arched an eyebrow, but paused to consider the question. "Take her dancing. Keep her happy. It's all there is, John. It's all it takes."

"Right," said John. "Trix, you're not much of a dancer."

"He knows," Trixie said. "I've stepped on him enough times to ensure he won't forget it either."

"Scuffed my shoes, too." Tommy cleared his throat. "Everything's a negotiation, John. Remember that. Marriage, business—it's all the same."

"Yeah," John scoffed. "'cept Esme doesn't operate by the same fucking rules. You know she had a gun under her dress? In her bloody garter. At her own wedding."

"And how'd you find out what was under her dress?" Arthur laughed, shoving him affectionately. Even Trixie had to smile at the proud blush that bloomed over John's cheeks. Maybe she hadn't made a terrible mistake with this. Maybe only one life had been ruined, and not three.

Hard as she tried, Trixie couldn't help but let worries about Lizzie occupy her mind. It wasn't the girl's fault that she couldn't offer them much by way of connections or treaties, but it gave her pause that she had begun to view people through the lens of hypothetical exchanges rather than as people by their own right. She looked over at Tommy and thought of all the reasons she'd loathed him when they met. If she went back and talked to her younger self, the two women would be unrecognizable to each other.

She made herself small as the men talked wedding nights and sex, booze and children, instead wondering what Lizzie Stark was doing at that moment. Was she working? Was she being treated well, or was she gritting her teeth through it? Had she only just begun her work, or was she on her way home? Had she eaten dinner? Had she eaten enough?

Guilt was not something Trixie wrestled with usually; she rarely hurt people, and the ones she did tended to deserve it. But Lizzie didn't. She'd only been trying to do better for herself.

"I have to go," Trixie said suddenly. She wasn't even sure of where her feet were leading her, only that she needed to start walking. "I—excuse me."

Tommy spent a moment staring at her, but moved out of the way so she could leave the booth. "Where are you going?"

"The brothel," she said, not thinking too much about it. Distantly, she registered John and Arthur's confusion and subsequent snickers, but it all faded as she stepped back out into the Garrison's main room and pushed through the crowd towards the street. Lizzie had only been trying to do better for herself, and Trixie had taken the chance away from her.

The streets were uncharacteristically quiet, Tommy's order for truce deafening in its silence. No fights, no smashing of bottles, no shouting. Just men walking to the pub or the brothel or home, hands no longer resting on the triggers of their guns. By the time she reached the brothel, Trixie's watch read 1am, but the calm outside made it feel much earlier.

Well, outside was calm; inside was exactly as she expected. Moans and banging echoed down the hallways that forked off of the foyer, and the man standing at the front had a wolflike quality to his features. When he spoke, his teeth were oddly sharp. "We don't have men here, you know."

"I'm not here for a man."

"You want a woman?" he asked.

Trixie considered explaining the situation to him, but figured it wouldn't do much good. The women here got paid after the souteneurs got a cut, and he probably wouldn't waste time that could be spent making money on letting Trixie clear her conscience. "Yes," she answered, making a grave effort to sound confident in her answer.

"Chinese, black, or white?"

"Um," she said, furrowing her brow. What an odd question. "Lizzie Stark. I want Lizzie Stark."

"Fine," he said. "How long?"

Trixie blinked. "How long does it usually take?"

The man stared at her for a long time, as if she must be stupid. Then, he turned back down to his dossier. "I'll give you an hour. Room 4, upstairs, to the left. You come out here and pay after."

"Right," she said. "Thanks."

With that, he turned back down to his paper, ignoring her entirely. Trixie moved towards the staircase. All the banging and moaning made her feel like she was in a haunted house, which would've been nightmarish enough, but the reality of it all felt worse. Here she was, in a building that smelled of sweat and sex, overhearing intimacy between people she'd never met before. When she reached the room, she was surprised by how well-kempt it was. The sheets seemed clean enough _._ The bed was made. Still, Trixie couldn't bring herself to sit.

It wasn't long before Lizzie arrived, dressed as any ordinary woman in Birmingham. All Trixie had imagined of raunchy dresses and bare legs proved false; in fact, Lizzie was dressed more modestly than she was.

"Hello," she greeted, locking the door behind her. Lizzie hadn't seen her yet, and Trixie waited for her to turn around before saying anything. "Oh."

"Hello," Trixie said. "Um, I was wondering if you had time to talk."

Lizzie smiled but it was hollow. "Alright. Talk about what?"

"I'm sorry, first of all," Trixie said. "I didn't mean to hunt you down and then—just _tell John_." _Well, it wasn't an accident either, now was it, Bea?_

"It was Tommy's idea, wasn't it?" Lizzie surmised. "Heard John got married to one of the Lees today. Big ceremony. You were there?"

Trixie swallowed. "I was."

"Pity I wasn't invited."

This was uncomfortable, but she supposed she deserved it. "Look, um. John told me you wanted to take a typing course at the college."

Lizzie stepped out of her heels, kicking them aside and sitting on the edge of the bed. She pointed her toes, stretching her foot. "Yeah. Can't anymore, though. It'll take another three years of saving, at this rate."

"I'd like to pay for it," Trixie blurted out. "I'll—whatever it is, I'll pay for it. Typewriter, course fees, ink. You shouldn't have to give up on it because Tommy wanted to betroth John for his own political benefit."

"I'm not _giving up on it,"_ Lizzie snapped. "I'm going to do it, whether it takes me three weeks or three years to save up for them."

"I'm sorry," Trixie said, nodding. "Of course, I didn't—I didn't mean that. I only want to say…" She took a deep breath. "It's my fault that it went from three weeks to three years, even if it was Tommy's idea. It was my fault. And I want to fix it, because you were promised something when John proposed and I took it away from you. You deserve to have it."

Lizzie held her bitter expression for a moment before softening. "Are you serious?"

"Yes," said Trixie. "It's—I've been roped into this— _political marriage_ with Tommy, and I live with him now, and I don't pay for any of my own things anymore but I still get paid for my work at the betting shop. You deserve that money, Lizzie. It's owed to you."

Bracing her hands on the bed, Lizzie hesitated. "I don't know," she said. "Look, I don't want to get into any more trouble with Tom—"

"You won't," Trixie promised. "It's my money, and I'll do what I want with it. Tommy can go fuck himself if he's mad about it."

Lizzie snorted. "You're not what I expected, you know."

Trixie raised an eyebrow. "How do you mean?"

"You just—" Lizzie shrugged, giving up on the sentiment. "Not the kind of girl I thought he'd end up with."

Trixie wasn't sure what to make of that, so she just shrugged. "He's not the type of man I thought I'd end up with either," she said, forcing out a laugh, thinking of how he'd kissed her so tenderly on the brow just hours earlier. "Well, anyway. Just come by the shop on Monday, alright? I'll give you whatever money you need."

"How do you know I won't start asking for extra?" Lizzie challenged.

"I make enough money for you to skim a little off the top," Trixie said, "but I don't think you'll want to, because that would reflect poorly on your work ethic, and then the upcoming Shelby Company Limited won't want to hire you for any of your typing skills." Lizzie gawked, and Trixie took advantage of her surprise to head towards the door. "Take care, Lizzie," she said, before letting herself out.

After paying, Trixie expected that she'd have a pleasant walk home, just as the one she'd enjoyed on her way to the brothel, but she was almost immediately ambushed by a group of younger Peakys. "Missus Shelby!" one of them called, his voice cracking and betraying his age. "You hear about Freddie Thorne?"

"The baby?" she asked, hoping that whatever news this was would overshadow the inevitable gossip that would accompany her being caught exiting a brothel. "Yeah, I heard."

"No," said the boy, adjusting his cap so that the reflection of a nearby fire caught in the shine of his razorblade. "The police broke Tommy's truce. They took Freddie away."

 _Oh, fucking Christ._ "Who told you this?" she demanded.

"Jeremiah was walking by the house when it happened. Fifteen coppers, he said. All had their guns. They broke the door down."

"What—" Trixie started, but before she could finish her question, the boys were skittering off. After they dissipated, she realized why. Tommy was approaching, his coat fanning out like some villainous cape behind him, head bowed menacingly. "Tommy!" she called. "What the hell's going on?"

He slowed to a stop and put both hands on her shoulders. "Beatrice," he pleaded. "You need to believe me, I had nothing to do with this."

"Freddie's been arrested?" she asked, hoping it wasn't true and that Jeremiah had been mistaken. Tommy nodded, and she winced. " _Fuck."_

"I never lied to you," Tommy swore. "And I'm not lying now."

Something in his face was so genuinely panicked, unraveled, afraid. Someone had ruined his sister's life. Someone had come for his family, and he was shouldering the blame. Tommy was a ruthless man with a razor sewn into his hat and a gun always at his belt, but he was not the kind to endanger family. And Freddie was family, now, whether Tommy liked it or not.

She shrugged his hands off her shoulders, needing space to think. "Alright," she said. "Well—if not you, who was it?"

Something shattered nearby, followed by incoherent yelling. "Not here," Tommy mumbled.

"Well. We can't go home, can we?"

It took him a moment, but he eventually shook his head. "Where else?"

Trixie sighed. "We could go to my apartment," she offered. "Assuming you didn't tell the landlord to move someone else in straight away."

"It should still be empty," Tommy said, reaching again for Trixie. This time, she let him have her, ignoring the sting of his fingers as they closed in a circle around her wrist. He'd switched from panic to paranoia, casting wild looks over his shoulder at any given moment, and Trixie felt the sudden need not only to help him, but to protect him, too.

 _Don't be stupid,_ she chided herself. Tommy was not the kind of man who needed protection, especially not in the city he owned. "Let's go, then," she offered, pulling him forward. "Tommy, let's go."

The silence broke, and he stumbled forward. Trixie swallowed down her concern. For the first time since she met him, Tommy Shelby looked utterly and completely terrified.

* * *

The apartment was not too different in appearance from the way Trixie remembered it, but was clearly more bone than body. Every drawer she glanced at was empty; furniture unused; the windowsill dusty and probably warped shut by the rain, as it always seemed to get this time of year. The bed had remained, still unmade from the morning she'd woken up early to go shooting with John, and she almost hummed to herself at the sight of it.

Tommy had been eerily quiet for the walk over, and was silent still as Trixie locked the door behind them. She took his coat by the lapels and pulled it off of him, waiting as he settled in a chair that was no longer Luca's, no longer even hers. Just a chair in an empty apartment, forgotten.

"Tommy," she prompted.

"I don't know how this happened," he exploded, coming back to life. "Nobody knew about the truce until after I'd given Freddie enough time to get to the house. I didn't announce it until after I'd given him _enough time to get to the house."_

"Someone knew," Trixie said. "Did Grace overhear you when you called?"

He shook his head. "She was at the bar. Nobody was in that hallway except me."

"Well, I didn't tell anybody," Trixie was quick to explain. "Ada was busy giving birth, and Polly was helping with all that. John and Arthur were with me the entire time, so it can't have been them."

Tommy sat with her words for a long moment, seemingly calm. "Ada won't speak to me. Polly won't speak to me. My brothers are too bloody pissed to be of any use."

"Except Finn," Trixie added unhelpfully. He glared at her, and she didn't bother feigning any indignant surprise. Trixie took a seat across from him at the table and sighed, happy to get off her feet. It was easy to relax back into the apartment as she kicked off her shoes, stretching her sore legs. "Someone told Campbell. Do you think he had other spies?"

"Your neighbor," said Tommy.

Trixie glanced up at the ceiling and considered James. He wouldn't step into the Garrison without her to accompany him—it was a twisted form of the normal rule about unaccompanied women. Just as an exception had been made for Trixie to get into the Pub, an exception was made for James, on the ground that he was an utter posh prick. "He wouldn't get in without being beaten halfway to heaven, Tommy, and he's far too fussy to endure that ordeal." Campbell might have other spies, but it wouldn't make sense to have more than one stationed at the Garrison. If Trixie would bet on anyone, she would bet Grace. She decided to say so. "Somehow, I think it was Grace."

He sat quietly, index finger tapping cautiously against the tabletop. "Grace installed the phone," he said.

Raising an eyebrow, Trixie sat up straighter. "Okay…"

Tommy met her eyes. "During the war—before they sent us to France—we had to get vetted at an office in London. They told us that they had found surveillance devices in the phones that German spies had left."

"Wait," said Trixie. "The Zimmerman telegram?"

He shook his head. "Before. The King had the War Office build something similar to spy on the Germans in return."

Trixie pushed her chair back abruptly, moving suddenly to the armoire. Her clothes had been packed, but the bottom drawer was untouched, locked shut with a key she'd kept under one of the loose floorboards. Trixie dug it out easily, forcing herself to focus on the task at hand: Grace, Campbell, Tommy, the guns.

The drawer slid open easily, and she grabbed the bundle of letters carelessly, as if they were old newspapers and not treasured correspondences from Luca. Trixie hadn't looked at them since his passing, just sealed them away and tried to pretend they weren't there.

"Luca wrote to me about them," Trixie explained, tossing the letters onto the table. "The dictographs, I mean."

Tommy lifted one of the letters and inspected it, and Trixie resisted the urge to smack it out of his hand. "Anything of importance?"

"I don't remember," she admitted. "I wasn't all that focused on the technical details when I initially received it."

He skimmed over the letter in his hand. " _Bea,_ " he said. "I thought everyone called you Trixie."

She ignored him, searching for the letter in question. It had been the last letter before the telegram, about the flight that would end up killing him. "Do you see anything from April?" she asked. "1917."

Tommy parsed through the papers, amassed over three years of writing, before picking one up. "Dear Bea, I had a dream last night that you—"

Knowing how the letter continued, Trixie ripped it from his hands. "Yeah, alright."

_Dear Bea,_

_I had a dream last night that you—_

_They're considering promoting me to Flight Lieutenant if this attack run succeeds—_

_I'll buy you any diamond you want—_

"Here," Trixie said, pointing down at the last few paragraphs of the letter.

_The War Office received an alert that says the Germans are planning on sending their zeppelins out of Arras. My squadron is supposed to move out in three days' time. I know you worry if I'm scared, but I'm not. It's like any other mission, and I've always made it out, Bea. I'll make it out again, and come home to you sooner than you know._

_The base is in a panic because the Germans discovered that we'd placed eavesdropping devices in their phones. Things are tense, but we're all just trying to keep our eye on the prize. I don't know if I'm supposed to tell you all of this, but you were reading that book on telephones when I left, and it reminded me of you. Feel free to tell me if I'm boring you. So long as you write back to me soon, you can tell me anything you like._

_I love you, darling. I can't wait to marry you, and I'll be home soon._

_Yours,_

_Officer Luca DeSilvio_

Tommy shifted uncomfortably after he finished reading, and Trixie cleared her throat, pulling the paper back to her chest and folding it. "Do you think she would've gone through the trouble?" Trixie asked.

"I doubt she did it for the sake of bringing business to the Garrison," he muttered dryly.

"Campbell fucked us," Trixie surmised.

"I'm not letting him get away with this."

"What do you want to do?"

Tommy stood up and began pacing the length of her bed, rubbing a thumb against his jaw. "You'll tell Campbell that you know about Grace. That you've known about her for months. We'll have him think that he and Grace cannot trust each other."

"Tommy," she warned, "I do think Grace would be quick to dispute that kind of story."

"We'll have her think the same," he vowed.

"How?"

He shook his head. "I need to think."

Trixie pressed her lips together. _She was capable of thinking, too._ Regardless, she gave him time as she re-folded the letters and stacked them back together neatly. Something about leaving them out on the table made her feel naked, and she'd gotten close enough to that sort of thing with Tommy already. He could know what Luca said about the dictographs, he could know the name of Trixie's father, he could even know how her father died, but he would not know what kind of fool she could be when she was in love, not even by proxy.

As he busied himself with pacing, she returned to the armoire, placing the letters neatly back in the bottom drawer. There would be no use in taking them with her back to the Shelby house; she would simply pack them whenever Tommy found her a new place to live.

"We have to talk to her," Tommy announced.

"We can try, but I doubt she'll talk to us," Trixie replied, standing and smoothing the skirt of her dress.

Tommy pulled the gun from his belt and held it up. "I can be persuasive."

Trixie thought she might feel guilty about the prospect of putting a gun to a woman's head and forcing her into some sort of deal, but Grace had ruined Ada's life, and maybe even gotten Freddie killed. She could be merciless when she wanted to be; nobody was obliged to that particular characteristic but God Himself, and good thing.

"I know where she lives," Trixie said. "I've never seen her with a gun, but if she's gotten this far, she's probably armed. She might shoot you back, Tommy."

He pointed at her. "You have a gun, Beatrice. Are you ready to use it?"

She chewed the inside of her cheek. There wasn't much of a choice, but the answer was nonetheless _yes._ Trixie would be cruel if she had to be; and though holding a gun to someone's head was only a finger-twitch's difference from killing them, an eternity seemed to exist between the first point and the second. "I am." She cleared her throat. "What stops her from fleeing, once she knows?"

Tommy shrugged, replacing the gun in its holster. "We'll offer her a job. Give her the opportunity to get closer to the business, and to the guns, while adding legitimacy to the lies you'll tell Campbell. There's only so much an undercover officer can get away with to preserve their lie."

"Right," she said, nodding slowly. In a way, she'd become an undercover officer, too, just on the opposite side of the line. While Grace crossed over into their world, she put herself into Campbell's. "Seeds of doubt. Do to them what they've done to you." _Us,_ she considered saying, but betraying Freddie had cut Tommy away from the family; Trixie had never quite belonged to it enough for a schism to be meaningful.

He rubbed his eyes, sinking down to the foot of the bed, looking more exhausted than she'd ever seen him—and he always looked tired.

"Tommy," she started, resting a tentative hand on his shoulder. He tensed but didn't shrug her off. "Tommy. These guns. Are you sure they're worth all this trouble?"

Instead of answering, he just leaned forward and rested his forehead on her sternum. Both his arms encircled her waist, wrapping her in what felt like an embrace but which could not possibly be one. It was the tenderness she'd cursed him for earlier, against the walls at the wedding, but here, he was not offering it to her. Just taking. It was cruel, then, she reasoned, and therefore permissible. Tommy was not trying to be gentle with her, Tommy was not using kindness as an insult to her strength; he was the most powerful man in the city, holding her close, because _he_ needed _her_ in that moment.

The choice was hers whether to grant it to him or deny it, but knowing that was enough to make the embrace strategically beneficial. Trixie slid one hand from his shoulder up to his neck and draped the other on top of his head, raking her nails through his hair. She willed him to hear her thoughts. _Remember this when you get rid of me, Tommy. Remember this when you find me so intolerable you have to exile me from the city. I held you. I cared for you when the rest of your empire turned its back._

He gave no indication of understanding. Trixie didn't expect him to.

 _Remember this,_ she willed. _Remember me. I loaded a gun for you, and put the barrel to a woman's eye. I slept in your bed. I told you my secrets. I went to the darkest parts of the city, and I allowed it to hold me by my throat._

"Don't say I never did anything for you," she told him instead.

Tommy didn't answer, but his grip on her waist seemed to tighten. As if to say, _I know._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay just want to clarify because I feel like the opinions expressed on sex work in this chapter are so archaic but I absolutely think that (voluntary, adult) sex work is work and sex workers should be treated with respect! even/especially if they like being sex workers and don’t want to move into whatever is considered “legitimate work.” lizzie’s setup this chapter was just so i could lay the groundwork for her to move into a bigger role even without being tommy’s love interest, because i think she’s a badass and the show didn’t give her the respect she deserved. 
> 
> i hope everyone had a happy holiday season and has a good new year! i’m going to try to get another chapter out before 2020 (finally) ends so keep an eye out for that too :) thank you again to Stephanie for beta-reading this chapter and helping me with some of the historical stuff! it is so appreciated 
> 
> let me know what you thought of this chapter! and thank you to Shariebery, alreadyafan, 221BB, moustache_bonnet, mliz18, bkazza, kkocmoc, Ameliejhene, JMBH, eunhasoojs, Holoyagi, cdsnowbarger, dirtygoldensoul, and SpecialAgentFiction for all the lovely feedback!
> 
> i will see you all for the next chapter, and i wish you a happy end of a hellish year in the meanwhile! 
> 
> **Chapter 23** / _The Woman With Two Faces_  
>  Something in Beatrice was cold, now, a bitterness foreign even to Tommy. Her arm did not tremble under the weight of the gun cocked against Grace’s temple, and she did not flinch. “You’re going to kill for him thinking it can make him love you back,” the spy said, “but he will never love you, Trixie. He’s just hungry. For—for sex, or power, or money.” 
> 
> She seemed to consider the idea for a moment, and Tommy was so absorbed in trying to decipher her expression that he forgot about the gun he was holding in his hand. “I’m hungry, too,” Beatrice said finally. “I don’t need to be loved, but everyone—even a woman—needs to eat.”


	24. The Woman With Two Faces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _this chapter includes sexual content!_
> 
> listen to this chapter’s soundtrack [here.](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1Dbt5FTeLut1XqfV8mHzQV?si=LrrdkyTfSO-arTyzu8L0FQ)

_ “ _ _ Man shall not live by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of God.” — _ Matthew 4:4

At nineteen, Beatrice Price was the type of girl to tremble at Polly’s order to go down to the police station and hand the officers the cash they were due. She had never stepped into a constabulary office—and she certainly did not expect to enter one with the intent of committing a serious offense right under the officers’ noses. 

“Can you do this?” Polly had asked. “Or should I have Martha take care of things?” 

She had been young, and eager to please, so Trixie had swallowed down her reservations and marched into the building with the confidence of someone who owned the place—and she supposed that she did—or  _ they  _ did, at least. 

Over the years, Trixie grew to learn that morality was a privilege, and not one she could afford often anymore. Church on Sunday, confession on Saturday, chastity always—but she was quick to realize that righteousness was hardly enough to fill an empty stomach. An empty cupboard meant a late night, and a late night meant delivering a longer list of names to the men who collected debts on the Peaky Blinders’ behalf. What happened after, she tried not to think about, but deflection only worked for so long, and eventually, Trixie had to stomach it. 

At nineteen, Beatrice Price was the type of girl to stutter over bribes, gin, and brothels. 

At twenty-two, she found herself loading bullets into her gun outside a sleeping woman’s door, readying herself for the worst that could happen.  _ Are you a killer?  _ She’d never thought of herself as one. Criminal, surely; liar, indubitably; but she had not taken a life before, and the knife she’d armed herself with against Kimber was nothing to the revolver in her hand. 

She was playing with fire—no, worse: she was playing God, but it was too late to back out now, with Tommy lifting his leg at the knee and slamming his foot hard enough into Grace’s door that the frame splintered open. 

Several things happened at once: Trixie raised her gun, as Tommy had instructed her to earlier. Grace scrambled out of bed and drew the cord on the lamp, bathing the three of them in yellow light. She reached for the gun on her nightstand, but Tommy was quick to interject with a dismayed click of his tongue. “No,” he ordered simply. 

Grace’s fingers hovered over the gun, mere inches away from the weapon. “What is this?” she whispered. 

“You have two choices,” Tommy said. “You can come with us and get in the car outside, or you can reach for your gun and see who shoots first.” 

The blonde shot Trixie a humiliated glare, before steeling herself and gesturing to her nightdress. “I’m not dressed to go out.” 

“Get dressed, then,” Tommy ordered. “Beatrice, get her a dress.” 

Trixie maintained the reach of her arm as she pulled the closet open with her other hand, taking the first dress off the hook and tossing it in Grace’s direction. Her lips parted in surprise as she caught it, almost as if to protest, but Tommy released the safety on his gun before she could, and soon, Grace was shimmying into the dress, not bothering to discard her nightgown. 

The blush spilling into her pale cheeks was almost enough to elicit Trixie’s pity, but not quite.  _ This woman ruined Ada’s life. This woman wants Tommy dead, Polly dead, you dead.  _ Grace was not an innocent woman asking for mercy and Trixie was not a fool. “Where are we going?” she asked, not moving from her spot beside the bed. 

Tommy crossed towards her, grabbing her arm and dragging her forward with such force that she stumbled over her own feet. 

“I’ll scream,” Grace threatened.

“No, you won’t,” Tommy dismissed gruffly, leading her through the remnants of her door as Trixie followed behind, the barrel of her gun against Grace’s back. “You scream, and one of us will shoot, and I’m not the type of man who gets caught.” 

She pursed her lips, but allowed them to walk her out to the car, where Tommy pushed her into the backseat. Trixie lowered her gun for a moment to bind Grace’s hands with the length of rope they’d brought, and then to knot one of Tommy’s neckties over her mouth. 

When she’d been properly restrained, Grace resorted to glaring, and Tommy started the car, heading towards the warehouses closer to the shipyards. Her silence worried Trixie more than any protesting would’ve; it meant she wasn’t afraid. Dawn was closer now than dusk had been, and they were pressed for time. Trixie’s watch read a quarter to four, and if she weren’t so furious at Grace, she might drop dead from exhaustion. Still, she held her gun to Grace’s head unflinchingly, checking every few moments to see if she was attempting to loosen her restraints. 

No, no. Tommy had taught her the knot—one he’d learned from all the work with horses, and she’d struggled with it when he’d demonstrated with her own wrists. They’d walked through the plan so many times that Trixie was almost bored on the drive to the shipyard, only jolting back awake when she threw the car door open and a cold gust of wind hit her face. 

“Come on,” she said, lowering her gun to step outside. Grace took advantage, kicking the weapon out of her hand and sending it skidding somewhere in the dirt. She kicked a second time, and her foot met Trixie’s ribs. “ _ Fuck,”  _ she hissed, drawing back. 

If she retreated, Tommy attacked, and as Trixie rubbed the sore spot in her side and scanned the ground for her pistol, he picked Grace up. “Don’t fucking do that,” he snapped, dropping her to the ground. “Walk.” 

She planted her stockinged feet into the ground, stubborn. Grace made no attempt to speak through the gag in her mouth, but if Trixie had to guess, she would come up with some combination of  _ fucks  _ and screaming. 

When Trixie found the gun, she checked to see that the bullets remained, and then cocked it against Grace’s back again. “He said  _ walk _ .” 

With two guns pointed at her, Grace finally acquiesced, trudging miserably through the horseshit and hay to the empty stall at the end. Curly had taken Tommy’s midnight call and cleaned it before their arrival, but the stench of manure remained. 

“You know a man named Campbell?” Tommy asked, once Trixie had locked the door shut behind them and Grace had been shoved down onto a splintered chair in the middle of the stall. 

Grace didn’t acknowledge the question, and Trixie kept her gun trained on her as Tommy reached forward to remove his tie from her mouth. “Campbell,” Trixie repeated. “You know him, don’t you? You work for him.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Grace spat. 

“How about this,” Tommy interrupted. “You don’t lie to us, and you walk out of these stables before dawn. If you insist on being dishonest, you’ll be carried out, with a bullet between your eyes.” 

She gritted her teeth, and turned to Trixie as if expecting mercy, but Trixie had none to offer. “Campbell,” she repeated. “Stout man, mustache, prefers a pipe.” Grace said nothing, so Trixie stepped forward and fisted a handful of blonde hair, yanking it to the side. “He’s the one who arrested Freddie Thorne, before the man could even hold his newborn baby. Is that more familiar?” 

Grace hissed as Trixie pulled her forward by her hair, before finally admitting, “I know him.” 

“You let them get to Freddie Thorne,” said Tommy. Trixie released her, taking a step back. “But Freddie doesn’t know where the guns are, Grace. Nobody knows except me. So you’ve sent a good man to prison for the rest of his life and you’ve left his wife and child with nobody to care for them.” 

“He’s a communist,” said Grace. “He’s organizing illegal strikes. He’s no good man.” 

“But that’s not why you came to Birmingham, is it?” Tommy asked. “No. Daughter of a Galway copper killed by the IRA. You came here to stop me from selling those guns and sending them back to your homeland, didn’t you?” 

“Innocent people will die,” she bit out. 

“There are no innocents,” Tommy laughed. “You want peace, Grace? Is that what you want? Do you get peace by separating honest men from their babies?” 

“The communists want revolution,” said Grace. “You did your research, Tommy, but so did I. You were a communist before the war, so I know you aren’t clueless enough to think that they’re harmless. Communist first, then a soldier, and now you’re trying to prove yourself with the other gangs in the country. Is that it?” 

Tommy shrugged, half-smiling in a way that was more malicious than humored. “Yeah, that’s it. Alright.” 

“As for you,” Grace continued, pivoting to Trixie. “You’re nothing but a preacher’s daughter.” 

“Preacher’s daughter with a gun,” Trixie reminded her. Maybe she should’ve been bothered by the dismissal, but it was a promising disguise. 

“Are you going to use that?” Grace asked, sounding dubious. “You’re going to kill me, Trixie?”  Something in her grew cold now, a bitterness foreign even after all her time with Tommy. Her arm did not tremble under the weight of the gun cocked against Grace’s temple, and she did not flinch. “You’re going to kill for him thinking it can make him love you back,” the spy said, “but he will never love you, Trixie. He’s just hungry. For—for  _ sex,  _ or power, or money.” 

She considered the idea for a moment, glancing sideways at the man whose love she was allegedly trying to earn. “I’m hungry, too,” Trixie said finally. “I don’t need to be loved, but everyone—even a woman—needs to eat.” 

Grace leaned away from the gun but Trixie chased her. “I’ve been onto you from the fucking start, you know. You’re not stupid, hard as you try to seem it.” 

“Oh, please,” Trixie scoffed. “We’ve been onto you since you stepped foot into the Garrison, and your  _ only _ job is to lie. I’m not a spy, Grace, I’m just an accountant—but this is supposed to be your skillset, hm?” 

“I’m the first woman the SIS employed after the peace treaties were signed,” Grace said. 

“Yes, yes, we know,” Tommy replied. He looked around for something—somewhere to sit, maybe—and settled on a bucket in the corner. He flipped it over and settled down on it, closer to Grace than Trixie would’ve chosen. “Your father taught you, eh?” Before Grace could answer, Tommy continued. “My father only taught me to gamble and fight. I learned the rest myself. But I digress.” 

“If you knew, why did you let me stay when Arthur took the Garrison over?” 

“Well,” said Tommy, crossing his ankle over his knee and setting his gun down to draw out a cigarette. “Needed to make sure you were good for more than passing gossip along.” 

She looked between the two of them, and Trixie cleared her throat. “We want to offer you a job, Grace. We need someone under the radar on our payroll.” 

Grace snorted. “You will  _ never  _ get me to work for you.” 

“Is that so?” Tommy asked. 

“Yeah,” Grace spat. “That’s so.” 

“What if it’s in exchange for the guns?” Tommy asked. “Hm? Save all those lives, and all you need to do is run a few errands for us.” 

She clenched her jaw and huffed, clearly considering it. Trixie wasn’t surprised—getting her to work for them was supposed to be the easy part; what followed would take much more planning. “What kind of errands?” Grace asked. 

“Nothing implicating,” Trixie replied. “Women’s work. Secretary work. Moving things around.” 

She arched an eyebrow. “And that’s all? You wouldn’t give up the guns that easily.” 

Tommy shrugged. “I have no alliances, Grace. I am on the side of profit, and while I know surely that there are a hundred different men willing to lay their bids on those guns, I also know that when the rounds start firing, it’ll all come back to me, and I can’t make much money with a noose around my neck.” 

“So you’ll allow us to confiscate the guns,” Grace surmised, “if I run errands for you?” 

“Yeah,” said Tommy, patting her on the shoulder. “It’s that easy.” 

“And if I say no?” 

Tommy laughed. “You remember those men I had a meeting with, Grace? Came out of the back room singing and laughing. Did you recognize their accents?” He leaned in closed. “They were IRA men, not too pleased about the situation back home. As it turns out, they can offer me a very good price on the guns. I’ve made arrangements in case harm falls on either of us—” He gestured between himself and Trixie. “—or anyone in my family. My men will have those machine guns on a boat to Ireland before the body’s cold. That’s a promise, and I am a man of my word.” 

Grace rolled her head back, eyes cast upwards as if in prayer. All that hung above them, though, were the slats in the stable’s wooden roof, and a sky too polluted to see stars. “You’re clever, Tommy,” Grace admitted. “But I still don’t get why you’re letting him drag you into it.” She pivoted to Trixie. 

Trixie raised an eyebrow. “ _ Dragging me into it... _ ” 

“What could you be getting out of this? You’re pregnant, this  _ cannot _ be good for the baby, and if he’s asking you to do this, he obviously doesn’t care about you or the child. You should get out.” 

Pregnant! Trixie had forgotten she was supposed to be pregnant, and she put a hand over her stomach to try and cover the mistake. “You kicked me in the stomach, knowing I was pregnant,” she said, incredulous. “That’s cruel.” 

“You kidnapped me with a gun to my head and tied me to a chair,” Grace retorted. 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Trixie dismissed. She may not have been pregnant, but she was certainly tired, and with dawn fast approaching she was aching to catch a few hours of sleep before she was due at work. “Do you want the deal, or do you want me to shoot you?” 

Grace gritted her teeth. “Fine,” she agreed bitterly. “When do I start?” 

“Today,” said Tommy. “We’ll drop you back home and I’ll come get you at noon. Wear something pretty.” 

“Is this how he talks to you?” Grace asked, glaring at Trixie as Tommy hauled her up. 

Trixie cocked her head to the side, a smile playing on the corners of her lips. “Sometimes,” she said. “He’s a romantic, after all.” 

* * *

When Grace was tucked back into bed, Tommy turned to Beatrice in the car and asked, “Do you think she’ll betray us?” 

She snorted out a laugh. “Absolutely. That woman wants the guns, but she still thinks she’s smarter than us. It doesn’t matter that she’s probably on the phone with Campbell right now, though. It’s just a red herring, after all.” 

He supposed that she was right, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel before clearing his throat. “You didn’t betray us.” 

Her eyes were wide with surprise when she turned to him. “Why would I have betrayed you? There was nobody else.” 

“Everyone has a price,” he mumbled, steering the car back home. Ada would probably give him a beating if she saw him, but Tommy would safely bet that she was fast asleep after the strain of giving birth. Even if she wanted a fight, it was his house. He would not be forced out. 

“True,” Beatrice agreed. “Everyone has a price, but mine isn’t just money.” She leaned her head against the car door. 

“You can’t tell Poll about this, alright?” Tommy rumbled. He worried that too much urgency would make her jumpy, but Polly would have them both hung up herself if she discovered that the two of them had spent the night torturing and blackmailing one of Campbell’s men. Women, he supposed. 

“I know,” Beatrice said. “It’s not my first day on the job, you know.” 

Tommy thought of the first job she’d done for him— _ him _ . Not Polly, not John. He’d sought her out after watching how careful she was with the numbers, and asked her to check on whether or not any of the runners at the shop were skimming off the top of the bets after pounds kept going missing. Within a day, she’d delivered him a name and the amount Vernon owed the Peaky Blinders, and by the end of the day they’d taken control of his parents’ bakery down the street. Arthur took all their bread to settle some of the debt, and Tommy had noticed from his office how carefully she tore off the heel of the sourdough loaf, clearly starved, and nonetheless biding her time. 

“Can I stay at my apartment, tonight?” she asked. “I’ve missed it, and since Ada’s back—” 

“Fine,” Tommy interrupted. He hated to think that there was another reason for her to try and get away from him. Fear of what had just happened, maybe, or perhaps she was still irritated by their rendezvous at the wedding. With Beatrice, it was hard to tell. “Have you always lived there?” he asked, trying to imagine a younger version of her walking the streets of Ladywood, but Tommy could only see the woman earlier, gun in hand, eyes burning, like she might go off at any second. It frightened him. He almost liked it. 

With great effort, Beatrice smothered a yawn. “No, no.” Her voice had gone soft from sleepiness. “I used to live in the parsonage with my father. But after Luca proposed I took out the lease on a tenement. It wasn’t quite proper, I guess, but we never intended to have a long engagement.” 

“Hm,” said Tommy, souring at the mention of Luca’s name. It always had Tommy wondering how much happier she would be if he had taken the man’s place in the cemetery so Luca could come back home. Perhaps she’d have a family. 

Neither spoke for the drive back to the tenement, until Beatrice was reaching for the door handle and saying, “Well—thanks—” 

“I’ll walk with you,” he interrupted hurriedly, remembering James. If Campbell knew, it wasn’t unlikely James did too, and he might try to get to Beatrice while she was alone. 

Her hand stilled over the door. “Alright…” she said, narrowing her eyes at him like she didn’t quite understand why on earth he might want to do that. 

Tommy didn’t care to explain. The sky was starting to light up from the rising sun, and for the first time in years, he felt so exhausted he might actually fall asleep without the pipe. Instead, he let himself out of the carriage and crossed to let Beatrice out, taking her hand in his as she stepped down onto the road. 

“Thanks,” she said, sounding very much like she did not mean it. As they ascended the stairs, she asked, “Are you going back?” 

Was she asking him to stay? Tommy nodded, wishing he’d brought his cigarettes from the car. “I have a business to run.” 

She snorted. “As long as you don’t bother me until noon, that’s fine. Though you may be short-staffed with John and Polly both out of commission.” 

Tommy shrugged. Work needed to be done, and he would get it done if he had three men at his disposal or thirty. “Oh, Beatrice,” he said, placing a hand on her shoulder. “No rest for the wicked.” 

Pushing the door to the apartment open, she cast him a look of annoyance. “That doesn’t mean what you think it means.” 

“Preacher’s daughter,” he said. “Easy to forget, after all you’ve done tonight.” 

The half-smile faltered, and she wrung her wrists. “You could stay, if you’re trying to avoid Ada.” 

Tommy inspected her. He’d already ruined her dress with the mud in the stables, and smeared her lipstick until she had to scrub it off her mouth with the back of her hand.  _ Haven’t you done enough?  _ “It’s my house,” he said, though he winced when he remembered that John would probably be consummating his marriage— _ loudly— _ in his house. “And I’m sure Ada will be gone as soon as she can be.” 

Beatrice nodded. “Alright,” she said. “Well. I’ll be at work on Monday.” 

Monday was a long way away, but Tommy very deliberately took any sort of feeling attached to that sentiment and buried it deep in the back of his mind. If she wanted to see him any sooner than that, she would. “Monday, then.” He swallowed, and—for some inexplicable reason—blurted out, “I’m glad it was me and not Arthur.” 

She took a second longer to process it than he’d expected, and blamed it on the night they’d had. “Me too,” she mumbled. “I don’t get along with Arthur, Grace would’ve been onto us during her first shift.” 

The corner of Tommy’s mouth quirked up, and Beatrice took a step towards him. “Lover’s quarrel may have gone smoother.” 

“ _ Well _ . It’s not like we had to pretend, either.” 

Tommy recalled his hand on her neck, the way she’d smiled without even realizing it, the way her chest fell heavily with every frantic breath. He had liked being close to her then, and he liked being close to her now, but his intentions had softened in the months between then and now. “You were safe.” 

She chewed her lip and looked up at him with much more earnestness than he deserved. “I know.” 

_ Fuck.  _ He let his eyes close for a moment and reached out for her face. Beatrice leaned into the cup of his palm, covering his knuckles with her own hand. When had he started going around and caressing women’s faces? Opening the car door for them? Worrying for their safety? Tommy swallowed down the words that threatened to follow— _ I will keep you safe.  _ It was a promise he wasn’t sure he could keep. 

Tommy didn’t know how they’d ended up like this—in her living room, panting over what was really nothing more than holding hands. When they’d first started working together, he’d wanted to fuck her. It was the old Tommy talking—convinced that she might be less stubborn, less contradictory, if he could take her apart in bed. 

When he opened his eyes, she was watching him curiously. “You should go home and rest.” 

He nodded, forcing himself not to look down at her lips. “I’ll see you Monday..” 

She nodded. “Goodbye, Tommy.” 

It was definitive as anything. Tommy pushed out the door, where the sun was already beginning to climb in the sky and cast the shadow he’d lived in his entire life. 

He’d wanted to fuck Beatrice when they met, which had been bad enough, but this—the pathetic kind of misery he felt because he would have to go two days without her—was worse. He’d had her, and if anything, the whole affair had brought him to her mercy. Not the other way around. If he hadn’t made plans to pick Grace up at noon, he might throw himself back up the stairs and ask if she would let him spend a few hours asleep at her side, but there was no time, and he had to retain whatever self-respect he’d managed to hang onto. So, adjusting his cap, Tommy climbed into the car and departed for Watery Lane, trying not to take the diamond-shaped gap in the clouds as anything more than a blue pocket of sky, or a hole in well-worn fabric. 

* * *

Trixie wondered if Tommy had noticed her in the window when he turned back to her door at the bottom of the steps. Probably not, she guessed, or he would’ve sealed his expression with something other than a sort of sleepy bewilderment. 

_ I’m glad it was me and not Arthur.  _ Her exhaustion was to blame, certainly, for the way the words rolled around her head. She kicked her shoes off at the corner of her bed, trying to shake away the memory of Tommy’s eyes, heavy on her as she used the rest of her energy to flop forward onto the mattress and fumble blindly for the blankets. 

Her hands were freezing. This apartment was freezing, and she pressed her palm to the top of the thigh with the hopes of warming it up. If only she’d asked Tommy to stay—they could keep each other warm. Trixie imagined it. Her pillow fell away, and she pretended she was resting her head on his chest. He would allow it, Trixie thought. He was always so close to her, anyway, always touching her arm or shoulder or neck. If she’d asked him to stay, Tommy would begrudgingly put an arm around her waist until she fell asleep. It was not her hand on her thigh, now, but his—large and rough. 

Trixie hummed to herself and fell into a dream where Tommy’s hand did not remain at her thigh, but snaked around to the slickness between her legs, fingers slipping inside her. Tommy crooked his fingers, and Trixie squeezed her eyes shut tighter, trying to force reality far, far away. She leaned into his touch, until a single word ripped from her mouth. “ _ More,”  _ she moaned, rocking back and forth, her pretty dress rustling against the sheets. “Take off my dress.” 

She couldn’t see him, eyes still determinedly fastened shut, but soon the satisfaction between her legs grew empty, a hand fumbling for her dress strap, bunching it up around her waist. He was between her legs again, one thumb pinching her nipple while the other rubbed at her clit. 

“ _ Tommy,”  _ she sighed lazily, rocking back and forth. Trixie wanted him inside her—his cock. She’d give him everything, she thought, she’d let him have her. The strokes against her clit quickened until a red-hot ache was tightening around her center.  _ You can have me. You can have me. You can have me.  _

Trixie imagined him saying it. Anywhere—buried inside her, holding her hand on the sidewalk, throwing back whiskey at the Garrison. It didn’t matter how, she just wanted to hear it.  _ You’re mine _ . She wanted him to say it so badly she thought she might die, wanted him to want her just as bad, and then she was coming, coming hard, hips tensing up. 

“Yours, yours, yours,” she whispered, shivering all over and then turning to jelly. She flopped onto her side, expecting to find the warmth of Tommy’s chest, but the cold sheets she was met with had her eyes flying open in surprise. 

Sunlight had begun to stream into the apartment. The empty apartment. Trixie shot upwards. Tommy hadn’t been fucking her, she—she’d done it to herself. 

The dress was still bunched indecently around her waist, and Trixie scrambled to pull the straps back up her shoulders, the fingers on her left hand slick. 

An uneasiness radiated from her stomach. Something was wrong. “He’s not here,” she muttered, an attempt to convince herself of the facts. Then, she realized. “He’s not here,” Trixie repeated, the words suddenly feeling like a punch to the stomach. 

She—oh no. 

Oh  _ no.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! i apologize for such a long delay between chapters lol my dad left? and we almost got evicted but then he came back a few weeks later but things were. a mess for a hot minute there and still kind of are but they are getting better. i know that i was like ah when school calms down i can write more but then family made that kind of difficult but anyway i am going to try to write more/quicker because i’m really excited to get into the rest of the fic! we only have 10 chapters left and they’re going to be really fun. 
> 
> thank you to eiman and stephanie for beta-reading this chapter for me and helping me with this slump! they’re both fantastic :) and thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapters! going back to read such kind comments has honestly helped me a lot with getting through such a weird time. so thank you to Ameliejhene, Shariebery, 221BB, kkocmoc, Shareece, SpecialAgentFiction, jdoozi, Gin_In_A_Tin, Peakyblinder88, ferallahey, Blahblahblah, Multi_fandom_y_6_7_8_9, befham, and DMG88!
> 
> i’m about halfway done with chapter 24, so fingers crossed i can get it finished and published soon! if you stuck with me through my impromptu hiatus, thank you so much and i hope you continue to enjoy this story. 
> 
> **Chapter 24** / _Father, Almighty_
> 
> “Who the fuck are you?” the man—Tommy’s father—asked, regarding Trixie with a combination of disgust and disinterest that made her ball her hands into fists at her sides. 
> 
> “That’s my fucking wife,” Tommy answered immediately, stepping forward. It was for the best, Trixie thought. If he hadn’t, she would’ve done it herself. “And you don’t fucking talk to her like that.”


	25. Father Almighty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listen to this chapter’s soundtrack [here.](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/21OIVxQK7K0HJQijXaEUUF?si=O4lwYCvUSzWpHBKZMYqBPw)

" _Call no man your father on earth, for you have one Father, who is in heaven."_ —Matthew 23:9

Trixie, having recently come to the realization that she might have feelings for Tommy, was not quite sure how to act  _ normal  _ when she arrived back at the Shelby house. All weekend, she had gone back and forth on it, trying to discern how much was love and how much was genuine affection, and all she ever ended up coming back to was the utter and total despair she’d felt, collapsing sideways onto her sheets and not finding his chest. She had wanted him to touch her, but she had wanted that before. What Trixie had no idea how to deal with, though, was the fact that she’d wanted him to hold her after and fall asleep by her side. If she saw him, Trixie worried that he would notice something had changed, and know what that thing was. It was fortunate, then, that she found herself in rather extraordinary circumstances when she shut the door to Polly’s house. 

All the Shelbys—minus Tommy and Ada—were gathered around Polly’s dining room table as a stout man she didn’t recognize went on about a fight he’d witnessed—or won?—across town. “It’s true,” he swore. “One hit, and three of his teeth popped out! Just like that.” 

“Hello,” Trixie interrupted cautiously, shutting the door behind her and setting her coat on the rack. 

“Oh, good,” the man said. “Can you make me something to eat? A sandwich? I’m starved.” 

Trixie blinked. “What?” 

“Trixie’s not a cook,” Polly snapped. “Sit, dear girl.” To the man, she said, “John can make you food if you want it.” 

As she lowered herself into the dining room chair, pulling the gloves from her hands, Trixie tried to discern if he thought she’d be the cook on the account of her sex or her race—either way, she wasn’t thrilled. 

“ _ Me?”  _ John cried. “I’m a man, Poll, I don’t know how to make a bloody sandwich.” 

“It’s two pieces of bread and something in between,” she retorted. “Surely you can figure it out with that big Shelby brain of yours.” 

John muttered something under his breath, but disappeared into the kitchen anyway. Almost immediately, Trixie heard the clatter of pots. She wanted to go help him, just to spare Polly’s kitchenwares, but she was more intrigued by the man at the table and what he wanted. “You’re a maid, then?” he asked, surveying the room. “Judging by the state of the place, not a very good one.” 

“She’s an accountant,” Polly replied, smug. She rounded the table and rested a comforting hand on Trixie’s shoulder. “Do you want tea?” 

“Love some,” the man replied. 

Polly glowered. “Not you. Trixie. Tea?” 

“Oh,” said Trixie. “No, I’m alright.” 

“You know, you shouldn’t be serving her, Polly,” the man said. Trixie struggled to remain polite. “It’s not right. There’s an order to things.” 

“Here we fucking go again,” Polly snapped. She pulled out the chair at Trixie’s side and lowered herself into it. Trixie just narrowed her eyes, not entirely believing that this man was serious. “Trixie is family. She’s more family than you’ll ever be.” 

“I’ll make you tea, Dad,” Arthur said, heading off to join John in the kitchen. He’d been so uncharacteristically quiet that Trixie had hardly registered that he was there, but she had begun to piece it together.  _ Dad.  _ This was Arthur’s father—Tommy’s father, too. She searched for the resemblance but found none. In fact, the only of his children he resembled was Arthur, with the full mustache. 

“Accountant,” the man mused. “Didn’t know that was possible for people like you.” 

She couldn’t stand to bite her tongue any longer. “Numbers are very real, yes. Even if you may not be familiar.” 

He glowered, pushing back in his seat like he was rearing for a fight. Trixie wished she had taken her purse to the table with her. The butterfly knife Tommy had gifted her was still tucked inside, and this man might take her more seriously if she had a blade at her side. “If you keep—”

“Sandwich,” John interrupted, stepping out of the kitchen and nearly throwing the plate down in front of his father. Somehow, he’d managed to muck it up, with the two pieces of bread separated by a single slice of cheese while the top slice of bread was smothered in jam. 

“That’s a good boy,” his father commended, putting a hand on his shoulder. John stepped away, unmoved by the praise. His father clasped his hands together and ducked his head, praying, “Bless you, Father, for these bounties we are about to receive—” 

Polly snorted and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Jesus Christ.” 

Their father popped one eye open. “Please, woman,” he asked, clearly feigning seriousness. “Not in vain.” 

Polly shot Trixie an irritated look, and Trixie just shrugged. “Finish your sandwich and sling your hook, Arthur,” Polly told the Shelby patriarch. 

“Pollyanna,” said Arthur Sr. “I’m the guest of the head of this family.” He pointed to his eldest son, who was setting a cup of tea down in front of him. “And since you let  _ that _ into your house—” He pointed to Trixie. “Surely you can host me for lunch while I reconnect with my children.” 

“For the love of God,” Trixie snapped. “You’re saying Grace—and you’re saying it  _ wrong,  _ by the way, it’s supposed to be ‘Bless  _ us’ _ —only to turn around and insult the daughter of a  _ priest _ ! Who also happens to own a gun. I invite you to reconsider your behavior.” 

The man laughed. “Fine. Well, then I invite Polly, here, to reconsider how she’s treating the guest of the head of the family. Perhaps your time would be better spent tending to your mangle, or your scuttle.” 

“The head of the family ain’t here,” John interrupted, his eyes on his shoes. He and Finn stood side by side in front of the China cabinet, hands clasped, looking like foot soldiers. 

Arthur Sr. turned towards his oldest son, as if demanding an explanation. Trixie smirked. “Tommy, uh,” Arthur fumbled. “He sometimes helps me with business, dad.” 

Just then, Trixie heard the front door open and shut, and she tilted her chair back to see who it was. Tommy, in fact, who took his time removing his hat and his coat, and Trixie took advantage of the delay to smooth her dress down awkwardly.  _ Do not think about it _ , she willed herself.  _ Do not think about it.  _ For a moment, she actually felt gratitude for their father’s presence, as the sour look on Tommy’s face when he recognized him was a firm enough reminder of the impropriety she risked. 

“Speak of the Devil,” Arthur Sr. greeted. “How are you, son?” 

Tommy blinked once, as if to ensure he wasn’t seeing things, before shaking his head emphatically. “Get out.” 

“Come on, son. I just want to see how things are doing.” He gestured at his suit, a poor attempt to recreate the Peaky Blinders’ uniforms. Even Trixie could see the cheap stitching in his jacket’s seams. “I’m a changed man.” 

“This family needed you ten years ago,” Tommy said, clearly restraining himself. “You walked out on us. Not now.” 

His father nodded, slowly, putting his hands in his pockets. “Well, truthfully, I do have some concerns I wanted to talk to you about. What’s happened to the business? First I hear that you’ve taken over for Arthur, and now—” He waved to Trixie with a mix of disgust and disinterest that made her ball her hands into fists at her sides. “When did we let these people in?” 

“That’s my fucking wife,” Tommy replied immediately, his voice suddenly going sharp. Trixie felt her cheeks grow warm. Everyone in the room knew that it was not true, and yet he’d said it anyway—to his father, no less. “And you don’t fucking talk about her like that. Get out of this house.” 

“Tommy,” Arthur said, staring down at his hands. “He’s trying. He—” 

“Shut up,” Tommy snapped. Arthur gave up immediately, dropping his eyes with shame. “You are not part of this family. And you chose that. Live with it.” 

A moment passed where nobody spoke, and Trixie considered laughing just to see if she could humiliate the man further, but decided against it on the grounds that Finn was behind her, probably curious about who his father had been and why he had left, and she didn’t want to traumatize the poor child any further. 

Their father stood, buttoning his jacket. “It’s alright, then,” he conceded. “Arthur Shelby never stays where he’s not welcome.” On his way out the door, he mussed Finn’s hair. “Bye, son.” 

Trixie watched as the boy twisted himself to watch his father go, but John was quick to yank him back into the kitchen. The door closed, and she fixed Finn with a gentle smile. “It’s alright,” she whispered. Finn nodded, and though he seemed sad at his father’s sudden departure, Trixie was grateful he hadn’t the opportunity to get to know such a wretched man. 

“He’s our dad,” Arthur said quietly, drumming anxious fingers against the tabletop. 

Tommy scoffed, no kindness to spare. “He’s a selfish bastard.”

Arthur straightened in his chair. “You calling someone a selfish bastard. That’s a bit rich, Tommy.” He glowered at Tommy, but Tommy didn’t bother to look him in the eye. “I mean, thanks to you, we’re already down a bloody sister.” 

That had Tommy’s attention, and Trixie bit back the instinct to interject on Tommy’s behalf. This was a family dispute, and despite Polly’s proclamation that she was one of them, Trixie hardly felt that it was her place to take sides between the brothers. “You want to see him, Arthur?” Tommy pointed at the door. “You want to see him, do you? You go with him.” 

The oldest Shelby glanced around the room in search of support, but Trixie was hardly going to praise the man who had regarded her as something subhuman all of three minutes ago. She raised her eyebrows at Arthur, waiting to see what he would say for himself. He shoved the chair back after a moment and stormed out of the house—but not the way his father had gone. 

Trixie waited a moment for somebody to say something, before she stood up too. Careful to avoid Tommy’s gaze, she pivoted quickly to his youngest brother, and said, “Finn. I have to get bread. Would you like to come with me?” 

He nodded. 

“Alright. Let’s go, then. Maybe if I have any change leftover, we can use it to buy you some sweets.” 

* * *

Trixie and Finn found themselves at the Garrison an hour later, splitting an extraordinarily pricey slice of chocolate cake. They were an odd pair, certainly, to be sitting in a pub. She, an unaccompanied Black woman, and he, an eleven-year-old child. But it was the only place that felt both safe and familiar to him besides the house, and they’d be closed soon to prepare for the dinner rush, so it was relatively quiet. 

“Is my father a bad man?” Finn asked. It didn’t surprise her, but it was certainly a deviation from the conversation they’d been having moments earlier about football. 

He looked so concerned, but his face was also covered in chocolate icing, so Trixie had to bite back a fond smile. How was she supposed to answer that question? How was she supposed to answer it without implicating the rest of the Shelbys, too? “Yes,” she said, honestly. The rest of the Shelbys were liars, thieves, and killers, but they were not senselessly cruel. Their father, on the other hand...

“Oh,” Finn replied. Evidently, that had not been the answer he wanted. 

“He’s bad because he left you,” Trixie said. “A dad is supposed to take care of his family, but he didn’t do that. He’s just quite a mean and nasty person.”

“Polly took care of me,” Finn said. 

Trixie smiled. “Yeah,” she said. “You’re lucky to have a big family who loves you very much, Finn.”

He spent a moment absorbing this information, before asking around a mouthful of cake, “Will I be like him?” 

She inspected Finn—his wide eyes, his round cheeks. How could a boy like him ever become like his father? Trixie wanted immediately to say no, to say that Finn would be good if she had to ensure it herself, but truthfully, she didn’t know. She wouldn’t be around long enough to find out. “Only if you choose to be. But you don’t have to.” 

“I don’t want to,” Finn said immediately. “If he’s mean. I don’t want to be mean.” 

“Good,” said Trixie. She set her fork down on her napkin and pushed the rest of the cake across the table. “As long as you keep choosing good, Finn, you’ll be nothing like him.” 

Finn accepted the cake eagerly, shoveling a huge bite into his mouth and chewing so loud that Trixie winced. “Where’s your dad?” 

She sighed. “He died. Three years ago, right before I started working for Polly. Do you remember when I started?” 

He nodded  _ yes,  _ but the confusion in his eyes undermined the assuredness of his answer. “Polly took care of you too?” 

Trixie smiled. “Yeah,” she said. “You all took care of me.” 

Grace emerged from behind the bar to ask a few men to leave as they finished cleaning, but she seemed to know well enough not to interrupt Trixie, if the glare she shot her was any indication. “I’m surprised you’re not in the meeting with him,” Grace remarked, fake-sweetness dripping from her words as she wiped a nearby table down. 

Trixie arched an eyebrow, glancing past Finn at the other woman. “Meeting. Who’s he meeting with?” 

“IRA, I’d guess,” Grace said. 

IRA? They’d already talked to them, and Tommy had already declined their offer. Trixie pushed out of the booth. “Finn, I’ll be right back. Can you watch the boy, Grace?” 

Grace’s face was blank. “Fine.” 

“He is  _ just  _ a boy,” Trixie emphasized, dropping her voice a little above a whisper. “If he gets hurt, the only thing you’ll get out of it is an early grave, got it?” 

“I’m aware,” Grace replied. “ _ I _ have a conscience, Trixie. I don’t hurt the innocent.” 

The insult may have stung more had Trixie not been so proud of the night in question. It repulsed her, the sort of achievement she felt from having wielded a gun, controlled someone else, having been the most powerful person in the room. She brushed the woman off, opening the door to the snug and finding Tommy on one side of the booth, smoke unfurling from his cigarette, while a man in a brown suit with a cropped haircut sipped from a glass opposite him. 

“This is a priva—” Tommy started, before he realized who was intruding. “Ah, Beatrice.” 

“Tommy,” she said, taking a careful seat at his side. Surely, she was able to set aside the dream she’d had for the sake of business. “And you are?” 

“Byrne,” the man answered. 

“We were just talking,” Tommy said, “about how Byrne’s cousin came here and got shot.” 

Trixie bowed her head to the Irishman. “I’m sorry for your loss.” 

Byrne smiled thinly. “I’m sure you are.” 

She  _ was _ —perhaps for the wrong reasons, though. Trixie was certain that the Peaky Blinders had no reason to kill an IRA man, and yet this had become more trouble for them to deal with. 

“Byrne came to inquire about some guns,” Tommy said, eyes zeroing in on the man across the table. “But we don’t have any guns, now do we?” 

“Not besides the guns on our belts, no,” said Trixie. 

“Well,” said Tommy, reclining in the booth. “Now you’ve heard it from the both of us.” 

Byrne was unphased. “The thing is, Mr. Shelby. And Miss…” 

“Price.” 

“Miss Price.” Byrne cleared his throat. “The thing is, your man Danny talks a lot when he’s drunk. But we also have men at the BSA factory, and men at the police station. And they say—they all say—that it’s the Peaky Blinders who have the guns.” He leaned forward. “Every finger in this city points in one direction, Mr. Shelby. Let me get to the point.” 

“Please do,” Tommy said, resting his wrist on the table. 

“I don’t care what kind of half-arsed tinker operation you have going on here. But I can assure you—I represent a very different category of organization.” Byrne stood, bracing both hands on the table and leaning forward. “My cousin was shot. Now, I am judge, jury, and executioner. I find you guilty and I pass sentence.” He cleared his throat. “You deliver the guns to me, I don’t care which one of you, or I deliver death and hell’s fury to you both. Am I making myself clear?” 

Tommy was nonplussed, scanning Byrne carefully before leaning forward to ash his cigarette in the glass dish. He shrugged. “Let me confess something to you, and only to you. I have the guns, but they have become a burden to me.” He raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps it is time to unload that burden. For the right price.” 

That seemed to please Byrne, and he lowered himself back into the booth. “Just you,” he said, pointing to Tommy. “Not her.” 

Trixie shot him a look. “I—” 

“Give us a minute,” Tommy interrupted, gesturing to the door. 

She scowled, but obliged, stepping out of the booth and out of the snug, Tommy right on her heels. As soon as the door was shut behind them, Trixie shot a cautionary look at Finn, who was sitting contentedly with his cake at the booth while Grace swept the floor. Trixie didn’t have much time to check up on things, though, before Tommy was swinging her around to the back hallway facing the office, his steps urgent. 

“What the hell?” Trixie demanded, her voice a forceful whisper. 

“You didn’t kill an IRA man, did you?” Tommy asked. 

“I’ve never killed anyone—I’ve barely ever tried.” Trixie raised an eyebrow. “Couldn’t you tell? Friday was my first time.” 

Tommy blinked, and Trixie resisted the urge to blush. She hadn’t intended for it to sound so filthy. “Right,” Tommy said, which made her feel even more foolish. “I’ve got a plan, we just need to parley with him.” 

“Is this the kind of plan I’m privy to? Or is this like the guns?” 

“I will tell you everything,” Tommy said, voice a low rumble. “I promise. You just need to trust me.” 

The late-afternoon sunlight illuminated his bright eyes. Trixie did trust him—easily—but the shame of her recent revelation gave her reason to overcompensate. “I  _ need  _ to?” 

Tommy put his hand on her wrist, thumb tracing up to the edge of her palm, and leaned in close. “Beatrice,” he said. Her skin felt raw under his touch. It was almost unbearable. She thought she might die if he pulled away. “ _ Please _ . I will take care of it, you just have to stay out here until I can tell him whatever he wants to hear.” 

She cleared her throat. “Fine.”

“Thank you,” he said. He wavered forward, and Trixie leaned in, thinking he might kiss her,  _ wanting  _ him to kiss her, but he only nodded, stepped back, and smoothed down his jacket. “Alright,” said Tommy. “That’s that.” 

“That’s that,” Trixie echoed, still stunned, her wrist alight from his touch. 

He pursed his lips, and then put both hands on her shoulders for a moment, and then left back for the private room, the door shutting behind him with a click. 

Truthfully, Trixie wasn’t all too bothered about being left out of the meeting, because it meant she had time to find answers to some of her own questions. When she returned to the bar, Grace was reorganizing the dishes. 

“Trixie,” Finn asked, sounding sheepish. “Can I have another slice of the cake?”

She smiled fondly. “Alright,” she agreed. “But just one. I promise we’re almost finished, and then I’ll take you home.” As the boy dug into his dessert, Trixie took a seat at the bar and leaned forward on her elbows. “Question for you, Grace.” 

The blonde set down a beer mug with more force than necessary. “Are you going to be able to ask me without putting a gun to my head? Or do you need to ask Tommy’s permission?” 

“I think I’ll find a way to do it myself,” Trixie quipped in reply. “You didn’t happen to kill an IRA man recently, did you?” 

Grace paused her work with the dishes. For a spy, she wasn’t a very talented liar. 

“You see,” continued Trixie. “Unlike me, or Tommy, the man in there doesn’t suspect that you’re a killer of any sort, and so he’s come to the conclusion that the Peaky Blinders were the ones to kill his cousin.” 

“Am I supposed to feel sympathy for you?” 

Trixie shrugged. “Maybe not sympathy, but I think you ought to worry about the fact that he’s attempting to blackmail us for the guns. You wouldn’t like that very much, now would you?” 

Grace narrowed her eyes at Trixie. “What do you need from me?” 

Trixie leaned back, appalled. “What?” 

“What do you need me to do, to get the IRA off your back? I can shoot. I can negotiate. I can call in backup.” 

“None of that.” Trixie shook her head. She glanced back at the door to the snug, and considered what Tommy could possibly be cooking up. If it was anything like she imagined, they would need Grace out of the way, but not gone. “I need you to take the night off, actually.” 

Grace balked. “And what? Stand by while the IRA strong-arms their way to the bloodiest revolution this continent’s ever seen?” 

“Bloodiest revolution?” Trixie asked, dubious. “Have you seen what they’re up to in Russia?” 

“It will be bad,” Grace promised. “Thousands.  _ Thousands  _ of innocent people will die.” 

“Don’t you think I’ve put that together?” Trixie asked. “As long as you leave the Shelby family be, we will keep those guns away from the IRA.” 

“You went through all that trouble of  _ hiring _ me,” said Grace, “and you’re not even going to put me to good use. I am capable, Trixie. Let me help.” 

“You’re a  _ liability,”  _ Trixie replied. “If you’re going to help us, you need to  _ learn your place.”  _

Scowling, Grace set a glass forcefully down on the counter. “Do not tell me to learn my  _ place.  _ I have spent my life being told—” 

“So have I,” Trixie interrupted. “And if I had to put money on it, I’d say I’ve heard it more than you. I am not telling you this, Grace, because I doubt your abilities. You made this mess, and now we have to clean it up. Let us handle it.” 

Her nostrils flared from the force of her exhale, but Grace eventually conceded. “Fine,” she said. “But if you give them the guns—” 

“We won’t,” Trixie promised. “I can’t speak for Tommy, devil that he is, but I have no plans to hang at the gallows.” 

Grace set her jaw. “I meant what I said, Trixie. You could get out. Before he gets you killed.” 

“I’ll take my chances,” Trixie replied. Unlike most of what she said to Grace, she was telling the truth. 

Grace scoffed. “You two deserve each other.” The disgust in her voice was evident. “Was anything you told me true? Your priest father, your—Luca? Your fiancé ?” 

Oh, God. If her father or Luca were ever to see her again, she would be beyond recognition. Little Bea, reading through homilies every Saturday night and never saying the Lord’s name in vain, now committing treason against the crown and wielding a gun. The Shelby clan may have twisted her into realizing how much she was capable of, but she would never resent the fact that she had become someone because of them. As a girl, she had never dreamt of becoming princess or queen, but there was something about the way that people had begun to scramble out of her way on the sidewalk that made Trixie grateful that she was more than just an accountant. 

Maybe they did deserve each other. She couldn’t think of anyone else who would be able to stand all she’d become. Trixie lowered her head to hide her smile. “The dead are gone, Grace.” 

“They look down on us.” 

“Then it won’t matter what I do. I’m sure it all looks the same from up there.” 

They spent a long moment staring each other down, until the door to the private room swung open, and Byrne and Tommy stepped out, shaking hands. “This evening,” Tommy said. 

“Pleasure doing business with you,” Byrne replied. “Miss Price.” 

Trixie nodded at him politely. “Two whiskeys, Grace,” she ordered, once the Irishman had disappeared out the door. “We’ll take them in the snug.” 

“That so?” Tommy asked. 

“That’s so,” Trixie replied. 

He agreed with a shrug, holding the door open for her to pass through and then settling opposite her at the table. Grace was in only a moment later, two drinks in her hands, and she set them down on the table with a quiet, “Mr. Shelby.” 

“Grace,” said Tommy. “Why don’t you take a seat.” 

She leered back. “Me?” 

“We both know you’ll be listening through the window anyway,” Tommy said, gesturing to the seat at Trixie’s side. It was a fair enough point, and Grace acknowledged that by sitting down next to her in the booth. “Cigarette, anyone?” 

“Yeah,” said Trixie. 

“I’m fine,” said Grace. “Thanks.” 

Tommy passed his tin of cigarettes to Trixie across the table, only for her to realize that she’d left her matches in her purse with Finn. “Do you have a light?” she asked. He nodded, fishing a box from his pocket and striking one of the matches. Trixie leaned across the table and—careful not to tremble at their proximity—dipped the end of the tab into the flame, waiting for it to catch, before settling back into her seat. 

“Any particular reason I’ve been included in this?” Grace asked. 

“You don’t ask questions,” Tommy directed. “Understand?” 

“What did Byrne say?” Trixie interjected. 

“We made a deal,” Tommy replied with a shrug. “He’s going to come back tonight and we’ll complete the transaction.” 

“You’re giving the guns to him?” Grace demanded. “Just like that.” 

Tommy raised one hand to stop her and used the other to pull the cigarette from his mouth. “We are  _ not _ giving the guns to him. He is going to come here to finalize the deal with an associate of his, at ten-to-eleven. Then, you,” he pointed to Grace, “or Campbell, or whoever’s in charge of this little operation, are going to bring some men around to pick Mr. Byrne and his friend up and take them down to Winson-Green.” 

“Why not just surrender the guns now?” Grace pled. “Avoid all this.” 

Tommy sighed. “The thing is, Grace,” he said. “I like having the guns with me, for now. They are a burden, yes, from time to time, but I find that they help others take me more seriously with the other business negotiations I’m managing at the moment.” Tommy reclined. “When I am finished with my expansion plans, I will surrender them. But only when I am finished with the expansion.” 

“When will that be?” Grace asked. 

Tommy tutted her softly, shaking his head. “If you know what’s good for you, you won’t bother asking those sorts of questions.” 

She looked to Trixie, almost as if for backup, before remembering herself. Trixie cleared her throat. “Tommy,” she said, her voice coming out softer than she’d intended. “How do we know it’ll only be the one friend, and not an army?” 

He tilted his head to the side. “Because  _ you’ll  _ be there, to ensure that the transaction goes smoothly. But we can discuss that later. Grace—do you know anything about a man called Malachi Byrne?” 

“She killed his cousin,” Trixie grumbled. 

Grace tensed, but she didn’t deny it. “I’ve heard the name, but I don’t know who he is in any specificity.” 

Tommy seemed almost disappointed when he shrugged. “Then I suppose you are not as useful as we hoped. Nonetheless, I need to do research, so it appears I will have to contact your boss, the Inspector.” He paused. “Unless you would like to do so on my behalf.” 

It only made sense for Grace to take him up on the offer, Trixie thought, with everything that was at stake. But she looked rather reluctant. “I can’t,” she said. “He can’t know that I’m—that we’ve made this deal.” 

Trixie raised her eyebrows.  _ He can’t know?  _ Surely as an undercover operative, Grace had some sort of say in the path she took to the information she sought, and offering her services in secretary work could not be any worse than her services in pouring beer. “He doesn’t trust you,” she guessed. “He doesn’t think you’re capable of holding your own.” Grace’s silence was revealing. Trixie barked out a laugh. “All this about being  _ capable _ , and your own boss doesn’t trust you.” 

“You know why,” she said, her voice low. “He might make the mistake of underestimating me, but I suggest you don’t do the same. Not when I have the legal authority to kill you.” 

Tommy held his hands up in surrender, but the glimmer in his eye was obvious. “Alright, Grace, alright. Don’t get trigger happy yet, you still need those guns.” He cleared his throat. “And since you can’t tell Inspector Campbell that we’ve discovered your little charade, why don’t you go back to wiping down the bar?” 

Grace didn’t protest, just smoothed her apron on the way out the door, leaving Tommy and Trixie alone together. Her stomach did a flip. She pinched the top of her thigh under the table, hoping she looked normal, wondering if he would be able to tell from looking at her what kind of thoughts had run through her mind. 

Impossible. It was impossible. Nobody read minds. 

_ But— _ she thought.  _ But if anyone could, it would be Tommy Shelby.  _

“How much?” Trixie asked, forcing herself to focus back on work. 

“Doesn’t matter,” Tommy replied. “Not if he won’t actually be paying.” 

She shrugged. “Fair enough. And tonight?” 

“Friday’s events didn’t scare you off the trigger, eh?” 

Trixie shook her head. 

“Good. I’ll need you as my Plan B.” 

“And Plan A?” 

Tommy smirked. “Plan A is where they pull a gun on me at the same time a dozen officers happen to be patrolling the area, and they land themselves in prison for being armed at a public establishment.” 

The idea was almost ridiculous—the Peaky Blinders, utilizing malicious compliance? “But you won’t be arrested,” Trixie surmised. “You won’t be arrested, because I’ll be the one with the gun, and I’ll only need to use it in the event of the first plan failing.” 

“There you go.” He reached across the table, and nudged her fingers with his knuckles. “Still trust me?” 

_ Yes.  _ “On special occasions.” 

“Good,” Tommy said. She wondered, faintly, if Grace had been right—if he was going to get her killed. “You’ll be safe,” he promised. “Tonight. I’ll keep you safe.” 

Trixie pulled her hand away from his for only a moment, to rest the cigarette between her lips, and then extinguish it in the ashtray. Covering his hand with her own, she offered him a smile. “I’ll be the one with the gun. I think that means I’m supposed to protect you.” 

“Well then, Beatrice,” Tommy said, turning his hand so that their palms were pressed together. “Can I trust you?” 

She laughed, feeling like the little girl in the fable who wandered into the woods. If only that girl had been given a gun and taught to use it. “Time will tell,” she replied. “Only time will tell.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading! this chapter is a bit of a setup for next chapter, which is probably the one i've been most excited for since i started this story, so i hope you enjoyed it. thank you also for everyone's kind words on the last chapter and the author's note—honestly things have gotten a lot worse but i'm writing to cope now so it's kind of a win in that way lol ! shoutout to Stephanie as well for beta-reading this and giving me so much wonderful insight :)
> 
> all the feedback means the world, so thank you to ImMyOwnDefender, kkocmoc, Missingartist, lostchildofthenewworld, befham, Ameliejhene, ucantstopme, Julia, bkazza, 221BB, nitathenoodle, lmenin, PreviouslyBlahblahblah, macademilk, eunhasoojs, oOlive, and dir.tygoldensoul for commenting on the last chapter and please let me know what you thought of this one as well! 
> 
> **Chapter 25** / _The Name of God_
> 
> “I want you,” Trixie blurted out. This was hardly the time to admit it, what with them both being covered in blood, and she wouldn’t blame Tommy if he exiled her to the countryside this very minute. This was hardly the time to admit it, and yet, Trixie continued. Her next words were soft, but her voice was steady: “It’s you for me, Tommy. It's you.”


	26. The Name of God

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter includes sex and kind of graphic violence (if you remember the original confrontation with the IRA from the show, it's pretty close to that)
> 
> listen to this chapter’s soundtrack [here.](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5gysRvNntsgaM0AocZRA4y?si=VU2vjBovTl2ZsFVl0y78TA)

" _Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins_ _."_ —1 Peter 4:8

* * *

Unlike the last time Trixie had confronted anyone with a gun, today, she had hours to prepare.

Initially, she considered this to be a good thing: she had dinner, soaked in the bath, and reapplied the chalk around her eyes that had a tendency to slip off over the course of her extra-long days. When that still left her with too much time, she finished _Wuthering Heights_ and started to reread _Pride and Prejudice,_ but the sweetness of the book had her drifting into the absolute wrong state of mind for all that was to come. She changed her clothes, tightened the waves in her hair, read the paper, and dusted the windowsills in her apartment, but still, she was left with too much time. All she could manage was devolving into a bundle of nerves.

Trixie knew that her feelings were absurd, but she couldn't help but feel as nervous about seeing Tommy as she did about the deal with the IRA. She had managed to make it through the afternoon with him just fine, but that was only because they'd been preoccupied with all the death threats and planning. What would they do after the cops came in? Would Tommy notice a change in her behavior? Had there been one to notice?

"Oh, for Christ's sake, Bea," she muttered. Trixie collapsed down on her bed, took a deep breath, and tried to relax. "It's no different. You've done this before."

She debated touching herself again, thinking of how well _that_ had relaxed her the other night, but Trixie couldn't help feeling some sort of guilt over the fact. _It's no different than what you did with Tommy._ Except—when they had done it, it had been their burden to share. That had belonged only to her, and it was equal parts thrilling and terrifying.

But still—Trixie remembered how quickly she had fallen asleep after her dreamtime-rendezvous, and that was certainly not what she needed a mere hour before she was expected to turn up and threaten insurrectionists with a pistol. Not at all.

Maybe she should have a drink. Trixie sat up with a sigh, and stalked over to the cabinets. The insides had been deserted by their previous contents, the only survivors were her salt and pepper shakers. "Fuck," she muttered. There had been gin in here somewhere, but—

But she and Tommy had finished it. Months ago. Right before she'd sold her soul.

If she were doing anything else, she might consult her Bible for guidance, but she could not bring herself to look God in the face; not with what she intended to do tonight. She might as well be early, Trixie figured, and get her gin from the Garrison instead.

"Father, forgive me," she mumbled.

Outside, it began to rain. Trixie tried not to take it personally.

* * *

"You're early," Tommy remarked.

"Business seems to be doing very poorly," Trixie replied, scanning the desolate Garrison. On any other night, it ought to have been booming with drunk men from the shipyards, Peaky Blinders, and ordinary dipsomaniacs, but tonight it had been cleared out to make room for the private meeting. "You should hire a better accountant."

He smirked, and held out his hand for her coat. "You have the gun?"

Trixie nodded.

"Where?" he asked.

Well. That was a bit of an awkward question. She'd stuffed the damn thing in her garter, like John said Esme had done at their wedding, and now she would have to hike up the baby-blue skirt of her dress to make the point. Trixie rested her hand on the outside of her thigh, pressing the satiny fabric down until the pistol's outline was apparent. "Here," she said.

Tommy blinked. "Alright."

She shrugged. "Doubt the police will take the time to look everywhere."

Instead of commenting either way, Tommy seized her by the shoulders. "Beatrice," he said, very carefully.

"Thomas," she returned, juvenile as it was. She couldn't stand to look at him like this, not when her departure from the city was ever-approaching.

His hands slid up her neck, and then to cradle her cheeks. Tommy was warm; oddly so. It took all her strength not to sigh into the touch. _You are not a fool, Beatrice, and only fools get heartbroken over men like him._ "Keep me safe," he mumbled. "I'm trusting you."

"You're safe," she said immediately.

He drew his thumb over the scar on her cheek. "Gun's loaded?"

"Yeah," she said, taking a step back so she could catch her breath, ideally without him noticing. "Yeah. Gun's loaded. Come on, Tommy, let's have a drink."

Instead of calling for Harry, or waiting for her to grab a bottle, Tommy stepped around the bar himself and located four glasses. He slid them across the counter and Trixie brought two to the table and set them down next to a pitcher of water, leaving two for him to fill with whiskey. She climbed into the barstool across from him, momentarily entranced by the crook of his fingers around the neck of the bottle as he poured.

 _Enough!_ she willed herself. _It's getting ridiculous._ Trixie grabbed for the first glass as soon as it was full and took a bigger gulp than she could handle. The burn had her sputtering into the back of her hand.

"You know, Beatrice," said Tommy. "You're traditionally meant to sip the whiskey before business, and only quaff it once the deal's done."

Still struggling, Trixie just offered a weak smile. "I know," she said, her voice hoarse. "I just…" Just _what? I'm just being stupid._ "Nerves. Liquid courage."

"Perhaps in moderation," he suggested. "Need you conscious."

"I can hold my liquor," she promised. "It'll be fine." Nonetheless, her next sip was much smaller, and Tommy gave her a slight smirk as he sipped from his own glass. "You have the time?"

He pulled his watch from his pocket. "Minute to midnight."

"Alright," she said. She took both their glasses and the bottle of whiskey, and brought them to the table, Tommy following close behind. Four chairs had been arranged around it, and Trixie took her seat to the left of Tommy. _Gun's loaded._ It suddenly felt heavy in her garter. Was it slipping? What if it fell to the floor and gave their intentions away?

Well, there was no time to deal with it now. Just as the hand on Tommy's pocket watch hit twelve, the door swung open. Byrne stalked in, accompanied by a burly man in a flat cap. Trixie searched for the glint of a razorblade, but found none, just wool fabric woven together. Was that sort of thing permitted, she wondered? The uniforms had a purpose—and the Peaky Blinders were rather protective over all they claimed as theirs.

"Miss Price," said Byrne, loosening the scarf around his neck.

"Mr. Byrne," she replied sweetly, attempting to scoot the chair forwards without appearing odd. When her lap was shielded by the tabletop, she reached for the gun, holding it in place with a fistful of blue fabric.

As the IRA men took their seats and Tommy poured their drinks, Trixie began pulling the hem of her skirt upwards. Every inch it rose was more skin revealed, and though she knew revealing herself in public was something of an atrocity, she'd done worse. And so she wasn't as ashamed as she perhaps should've been as she finally gathered the skirt around the top of her thigh, leaving her easy access to the gun.

"Gentlemen," Tommy greeted, clearing his throat. "This is my accountant." He glanced over at her, eyes for the briefest moment darting down to her leg, and he let out a strangled noise that he quickly covered with a cough.

Trixie was quick to jump in. "Cold out there, isn't it?"

"We're not here to make small talk," the man with the hat dismissed.

"Don't teach manners in Ireland, do they?" Tommy asked, seemingly regaining composure.

Byrne stiffened. "Just show us where."

As if he had no stake in the matter, Tommy reached into his overcoat and pulled a folded-up map of the city from the blazer pocket. He held it up demonstratively. "Give us the cash."

Byrne nodded to his friend, who reached into his own coat. Trixie's hand went to her gun before she could help it, worried he might come out armed, but when he pulled a bundle of cash from his pocket, she found herself exhaling with relief. He slid the money across the table towards Trixie, and she smiled politely as she accepted it to begin counting.

The gun was balanced atop her thigh, and she leaned forward to hide it better under the table as she flipped through the stack of cash. It wasn't like she had anything to look for, necessarily, since Tommy hadn't shared with her the number he'd agreed to, and the police were due to burst in at any given moment. After thumbing aimlessly through the money for long enough to convince them that she knew what she was doing, she gave Tommy a silent nod and he dropped the map onto the table.

She wished, as Byrne covered the map with his hand, that she had asked Tommy for a number. At least then she would know if they had delivered, and she could try to make assumptions from that whether or not they were planning on cooperating or killing them both.

On the other side of the table, another silent conversation was taking place. Byrne inspected the map for a moment, and then turned to his associate, who smirked. Trixie only had a moment to piece things together before the man reached into his coat pocket again, this time drawing a pistol, and pointing it across the table at Tommy. "You thick fucking tinker," he laughed. "Did you really think we'd let you live?"

Tommy held up his hands. "It was worth the try."

Byrne joined in on the amusement, smirking at Trixie. "It's a damn shame he wouldn't leave you out of it. We can't leave any loose ends, Miss Price."

Well, she had her gun, and now was certainly an ideal time to use it. Police could be dealt with and paid off, but if she was shot dead, it would be a much more permanent fate. Trixie yanked the pistol out of her garter and shot up from her seat. As she brandished her weapon, she faintly recognized the clatter of the chair toppling over behind her, and the way Tommy had now stood too. "Great minds," she muttered.

The man grinned, almost thrilled, and shared a bemused look with Byrne. "Accountant, eh?" he asked. Trixie didn't answer. "Shoot her first," Byrne instructed.

 _Shoot her first._ Where were the fucking police?

She was hardly even thinking as it happened. Was she shaking? She ought to be shaking. She was going to die, here, shot in the Garrison, and she hadn't been to confession in weeks.

_Christ._

Byrne's associate shrugged. "Sorry, sweetheart," he offered. What followed: two gunshots, a yelp, and a body on the floor.

Trixie dropped her gaze to her stomach. Shock, certainly, was what had prevented the initial pain from the bullet. But even though her pretty blue dress had been splattered with blood, there was no wound.

 _Not possible,_ she thought, pinching at odd parts of her stomach, waiting for something to sting. He'd been too close to her to miss, and—she checked over her shoulder—there was no damage to the wall.

Which meant that it jammed. His gun had jammed.

And hers hadn't.

The bullet had punctured the center of his skull, and now he was splayed out on the sticky Garrison floor, head pillowed by a puddle of blood. Trixie gasped, and looked up at Tommy for confirmation that the man was, in fact, dead, and that it had been her who pulled the trigger. Tommy, however, was preoccupied when her eyes landed on him, lunging across the table and wrestling Byrne's pistol away. She brought her arm, her trembling arm, up, and tried to aim for Byrne, but the two men were tangled together now, stumbling back over the body on the floor and crashing into the bar.

Their bodies collided with glasses, mugs, bottles, glass shattering all over the floor before they collapsed atop the shards, one of them struggling for breath, knotted together so tightly that Trixie couldn't tell which.

Guns were easy, Trixie thought. This was harder. The wheeze in someone's windpipe, elbows kicking back, the frantic scrabble for mercy as they suddenly broke apart and began rolling across the floor. She wanted to shout at them to stop moving, just so she could get a clear shot at Byrne and finish this mess up, but she couldn't find the words. Where were the police? Why hadn't they come? How had a dozen officers all been late?

They tangled together again, this time with a clear winner. Byrne held Tommy's neck in the crook of his elbow, both men on their backs, Tommy's legs scrambling out as he struggled to catch his breath. Trixie didn't need the gun, suddenly. She just needed to—to _stop_ seeing this. Tommy on the floor, gasping violently for air.

Without giving it much thought, she stalked over to them and gave Byrne a swift kick in the head. And again. Tommy took advantage of his momentary distraction and slipped out of the chokehold, but Byrne didn't give up. Seizing Trixie's ankle, he yanked her down to the floor with force that sent her slipping backwards, knocking the wind from her lungs and the gun from her hand.

Byrne climbed on top of her, wrapping a fist around her throat, and oh, Christ, this was _far worse_ than the gunshot would've been. _Let me go back,_ she prayed, trying to pry his fingers backwards as his grip constricted. _Let me go back and die the faster way._

Trixie gagged against the hand around her neck. Where were the police? Her legs were twitching now too, her vision blurring, and then there was a loud _bang._ Air rushed back into her lungs and Trixie scrambled backwards, coughing as she sucked in as much oxygen as she could manage.

When her vision cleared, Trixie realized what the noise had been. One of the new cleaning buckets, now held high over a kneeling Tommy's head and brought down onto Byrne's face. Over, and over, and over again. She watched, horrified, fascinated, _vindictive,_ as Tommy bludgeoned the man to death. The banging grew duller, softened by the blood and brain tissue lining the bucket's rim, before it finally fell from his hands, rolling across the floor and leaving a spiral-shaped line of blood as it went.

The world was suddenly very quiet in the absence of guns, or bucket, or fighting men. Where there had been four people, there were now two, and the fact hung undeniably from the silence.

Trixie watched as Tommy leaned back, unsure of what to say. _It's my first time._ A clicking noise started up, and Trixie thought maybe it was the beer hose acting strange, or the electricity, but then she realized that Tommy's teeth were chattering—his whole body was trembling, hands rolling into fists and smearing blood across his palms. "Tommy," she said, soft. She crawled towards him. "Tommy?"

Her hands found his shoulders and his face found the crook of her neck. They shook terribly, both of them, covered in blood. He gripped her waist with enough force to bruise, like they might get swept away by the current if they didn't hold on tight. "Now you see me," he rasped. His desperate whisper was muffled by her skin. "Now you see me, Beatrice. Now you see me."

She shook her head. "No. No. Tommy," she pleaded, searching for the sides of his face with her hands and pulling him back to look at him. The blood on his face seemed like nothing next to the blue of his eyes. "Listen to me, Tommy. I have always seen you. _I have always seen you._ "

He leaned forward and pressed his forehead to hers. Trixie sucked in a breath. "They'll come for me," he said. "This wasn't an accident. They'll come for me."

"No," Trixie disagreed. "I made promises, Tommy, and I am a woman of my word."

As much as it killed her, Trixie found herself pushing him back and standing up on her feet. He followed, and she searched for her gun, switching the safety on, and pushing it into his hands. "Go back to the office. I'll wait for them here."

"Beatrice."

"I was working a late shift," she said. "It's the end of the month. I stayed late to work on our purchasing budgets. Two men came in here, drunk. They got into a fight."

" _Beatrice."_

"I don't need proof," she continued. In the scuffle, the money had gone flying, but it landed somewhere near the windows, untouched by blood. Trixie crossed the room to retrieve it, her heels suddenly very loud. "I just need something for them to write on their reports, and money to reimburse them for the ink."

"Beatrice," he repeated, growing frustrated. She put a hand on the side of his face.

"Tommy," she begged. "Let me take care of you. _Please._ Go back to the office."

He stiffened, clearly resentful of the prospect, but when he nodded, Trixie had to bite back her pride. If he was the most powerful man in the city and he was obeying her orders, what did that make of Trixie?

Alone at the bar, she let out an exhausted sigh. This had not been the night she was expecting. She slipped behind the counter, grabbing the first clean rag she could find and wiping the blood from her face. When she'd scrubbed it from her hands, Trixie tossed the fabric back down to the floor. There were bottles of liquor stashed at the bottom of the counter, and she was reminded of Tommy's words. _Sip the whiskey before business, and only quaff it once the deal's done._

 _Well_ , she thought, looking down at the two dead men. _About as done as a deal can be._

Just as she was reaching for the whiskey bottle, the front door swung open, Sergeant Moss and a handful of patrolling officers strolling in like they'd arrived for a drink and not a job. "Running a bit late, are we?" she asked.

"Where's your boss?" Moss demanded.

"Arthur?" Trixie asked. "Arthur's not here. I was just working late on our budget for next month."

Moss nudged Byrne's friend with his boot. "Then what the hell is this?"

Leaning over the counter, Trixie feigned surprise. "Oh, you see—I was finishing up inventory of the whiskey, and then these two men—they got into a fight. Think they were drunk."

"A fight, eh?" Moss asked, clearly not buying it. He pointed to Byrne. "See, I don't really get that. Because this one here is IRA." He pointed to the other man. "But so's this one."

"Maybe you're mistaken," Trixie suggested innocently.

"I'm not mistaken," Moss snapped. "That is Malachi Byrne, and that one there's Declan O'Neill. Both IRA."

"Lots of blood," Trixie suggested. "Might distort their appearances."

Moss sent her an irritated look before bending down and inspecting Byrne's body. "This one here—he looks like he was killed by a wild fucking animal."

"Put that on the report," Trixie suggested, sliding the wad of money across the counter. "You know, two IRA men killing each other makes your job much easier. Perhaps you ought to thank them." She cleared her throat. "Or maybe you ought to ignore the report altogether. You know how the Irish are, don't you, Sergeant?" Trixie shrugged. "Kill one, and a dozen more come looking for revenge. Imagine the mess you'd have on your hands."

He scowled, approaching the counter of the bar, and Trixie worried for a moment that she may have misjudged things. Maybe he would arrest her. Maybe she should've let Tommy take care of it, with all his influence.

But Moss said nothing, just pocketed the cash. "Get the bodies out of here," he called back to his men. "This never happened, and they were never here."

Trixie smiled, pleased. "Have a good evening, officer. If you don't mind, I'm going to finish up that work I mentioned earlier."

She pulled a bottle of whiskey from under the counter as she went. Even if they had little to celebrate, she doubted that Tommy would mind a drink. She certainly needed one.

He was at the desk when she found him, and he'd already located a bottle from Arthur's stash, drinking directly from the neck. "I see you beat me to it," Trixie said. The desk faced the wall—at Arthur's insistence—so there was nowhere for her to sit besides the already-occupied chair and the table itself. She leaned against it and inspected Tommy.

"They're taking care of it?" he asked.

She shrugged. "Never happened."

He nodded. "Guess not."

Trixie pulled the handkerchief from his breast pocket and unfolded it. While she dabbed at the blood on his cheekbones, Tommy watched her carefully. He took a handful of her dress into his fist.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled.

She pulled her hand away, but not her face. It was nice to be near him, while she still had the chance. Trixie wished she hadn't given it all up so easily. "For what?"

"Your dress is ruined."

Trixie considered denying it, but she knew the blood wouldn't come out of such pale fabric. Still—the dress was nothing. They had both made it out alive, which meant there were plenty of opportunities to stop by the dressmaker in the foreseeable future. "It's alright, Tommy."

He let out a breath. "I've done that before."

Trixie said nothing, just leaned back the slightest bit to get a better look at him.

"When you're digging, your paths sometimes cross with theirs, and you have to finish things there," he explained. "I wasn't a child when I was in France. I'd shot men before. Some died. But—" Tommy seized her hand, and pulled the handkerchief from her, dropping it on the floor somewhere beside the chair. "I didn't have a gun the first time. One second, it was my shovel hitting dirt, next there was—" He took a heavy, labored breath, like the memory was boxing him in the stomach. "I wasn't always—" Tommy cut himself off.

"Don't," Trixie said.

Tommy blinked. "What?"

She shook her head. "War is a terrible thing, Tommy, and when you—" Trixie swallowed. "When you care for someone, you don't let them go back."

For a long moment, he didn't react. Had it been the wrong thing to say? Should she have waited for him to continue? Or perhaps she shouldn't have said she cared for him. Trixie opened her mouth to backtrack— _care, as in, partnership. Care, as in, I need you to stick to the plan—_ but then Tommy's mouth was on hers, slow, startlingly uncertain.

God, he tasted like whiskey and salt. Trixie cradled his face as she kissed him back, thumb moving gently over the blade of his cheekbone, fingers soft over his jaw. One of his arms snaked around her waist, tugging her forward gently until she was lowering herself into his lap, ankles crossed like a proper woman, despite everything else going to the contrary. This was not like the time in his car, or John's wedding. There was no anger, just his arm loose around her waist and her fingers running through his hair.

When he broke the kiss, Trixie chased his lips before she could stop herself. Tommy pressed his forehead against hers, as if to assure her that he was not gone.

Trixie kept her eyes closed, the prospect of looking at him too intense to be bearable. He would have none of that, though, whispering, " _Beatrice_ ," once, so sharp against the quiet that she felt a heat run through her whole body that was immediately washed over with ice when she met his eyes. "What is it?"

She shook her head. "Nothing. Can we just—" She leaned back in, desperate to avoid the mortifying ordeal of speaking, but Tommy held her an arm's length away, fixing her with a stern look. This was it, then? Trixie would either have to spit it out, or climb off his lap and let the adrenaline fade—and who knew what kind of guilt lay on the other side of that line? "It's just that," she said, clearing her throat. "I want you, Tommy," she blurted out. This was hardly the time to admit it, what with them both being covered in blood, and she wouldn't blame Tommy if he exiled her to the countryside this very minute. This was hardly the time to admit it, and yet, Trixie continued. Her next words were soft, but her voice was steady: "It's you for me, Tommy. It's you."

"Beatrice," he warned. "No."

"I do," she insisted.

"You don't," he dismissed. "You've seen the type of man I am. I'm cruel and I'm selfish. You'd let a bad man like me between your legs?"

"It's the only way I can be sure," she said slowly. "If I have seen you at your cruelest, and want you nonetheless. That means something."

"I killed that man," he mumbled hoarsely.

"I killed his friend," Trixie countered. "We did this together. I am as bad as you, Tommy. I've only been lacking in opportunity."

His eyes sank shut, one hand groping blindly until it caught the back of her knee. Tommy dragged it forward, towards his hip, until she was straddling his lap in the chair, bracing her weight on the edge of the table with one hand and holding his chin in the other. "You should be more afraid of me," he said, and kissed her anyway, hungry and impassioned.

Trixie melted into his arms, his warmth. If she could have this, she would take it. She wanted him to belong to her, and she him, and she wanted the marks to prove it. Tommy held her waist tight, pulling her back down, and she bucked against him. He was half-hard, the tent of his trousers growing ever-more apparent the more she rolled her hips against him. God. _God._ A moan escaped her lips and he swallowed it down just as quickly, sliding his hands to her hips and then the backs of her thighs.

With a push, Tommy stood and perched Trixie on the edge of the desk. She hooked her ankles together behind his back, one heel slipping from her foot and falling to the floor. He was pressed tight against her, and Trixie was flushed all over, her hands making fists at the lapels of his jacket. Tommy bit down on her lip— _hard—_ and Trixie sputtered at the sting only to forget about it when he swiped over the spot a moment later with his tongue.

It was all so much—the sweet way his left hand toyed with the strap of her dress, while his right gave her thigh a pinch; the dig of the table into her back, the warmth of his body. She wondered if the little aches should bother her more, but—it wouldn't be Tommy if it didn't hurt a little.

She had no idea what she was doing, but Tommy had seen her through so many firsts that she couldn't find it in her to be ashamed of her inexperience. Trixie found his belt with her hand and yanked him forward, sending him stumbling hips-first into the sweet ache between her legs. " _Christ,"_ she whimpered, and Tommy let out a shuddery laugh.

When Trixie tried to lean into his lips again, he stopped her with a hand on her collarbone. "Beatrice," he said. "Just—" He glanced at the door. "Not here."

"So take me home," she said.

Tommy ghosted his hand over her throat. Trixie leaned into the touch and sighed. "You know I'm not a good man," he threatened.

"I know, Tommy," she said, covering his hand with her own. "I know."

* * *

Their decency lasted until Tommy's bedroom door was shut and locked, and not a moment after. The waiting had been bad enough: she had spent a painstaking amount of time checking the locks on the doors while Tommy discussed specifics with Moss outside. In the quiet of their walk home, she almost wondered if he would change her mind. Or if she would decide to turn back.

Evidently, neither had happened. Tommy backed her up against the door as soon as she was inside and took both her wrists in one hand, pinning them above her head. She felt wet and hot, grinding helplessly against the thigh he used to partition her legs. "Can you be quiet?" he asked.

 _No. I don't know._ "Yes," Trixie said. Whatever she needed to say to keep him going—and anyway, with Arthur gone and John half-moved into his and Esme's new house, the house was deserted enough. Her knees trembled as Tommy began gathering her dress and dragging the hem up to her hips, exposing her legs and the short white underthing she wore below. Eyes still on hers, Tommy reached down and ran the tip of one finger against her slit. She let out a whimper.

Tommy dropped the skirt of her dress and stepped away. She followed without thinking, but her legs were getting weaker, and she ended up tumbling back into his arms. He hoisted her onto her feet, and then they were eye to eye, bodies lit up by the light outside his window. "Are you afraid?" he rasped.

Defiant as always, Trixie shook her head. "Not of you." She shifted under his stare, and considered the other factor in all this. "I've never done this before."

He nodded and lifted one of her hands to his mouth, pressing open-mouthed kisses to her knuckles. Then, he guided her fingers down to the buttons of his waistcoat . It took a moment, but she eventually pushed it from his body. She yanked on the bottom of his shirt next, and he worked on the top buttons while she fumbled with the lower half, their hands eventually meeting in the middle of his chest. He let the shirt drop to the ground before sitting on the bed, and gesturing for her to join him.

Trixie stepped out of her heels and climbed into his lap. This was familiar; this, she knew how to do. The bulge in his pants had grown more obvious since they were at the Garrison, and she tried not to be too proud of herself for being wanted. Her hands fell everywhere she could touch—his hard stomach, his warm chest, his broad shoulders. Tommy started riding her dress up again, eventually pulling the whole garment from her body. In nothing but the white slip, Trixie felt suddenly like the virgin she was. Shy. Clueless. But when she glanced down, she found that it, too, had been stained by the blood.

The sight of it made her stomach twist in a way that wasn't necessarily bad, though she knew it should've been. It had to go, but Tommy hesitated, also mesmerized by the blood. She reached down and pulled it off herself.

Bare chested, Trixie lunged forward, seizing Tommy's lips between her teeth, too busy wanting to bother with moral reflection. The man was everywhere—a palm on her breast, and then gripping her hips, an arm thrown around her to pull her closer against him until she was planted firmly against the crotch of his pants, that fabric all that separated the two of them.

In one smooth motion, Tommy twisted their bodies, Trixie falling backwards onto the mattress while he crawled atop her. "Oh my God," she mumbled against his lips. "I—I _need_."

He settled between her legs, pulling her knee up so one foot was flat on the blanket, and reached between her parted thighs, fingers slow as they teased her. It was better than her dream had been, better than the last time he'd touched her. She arched into his hand, sighing pleasantly, almost relieved that she was finally getting the friction she'd craved. When he quickened his pace, she gasped, the sound catching in her throat and coming out strangled. From his spot lower down the bed, he watched her, unfaltering, as the muffled moans fell from her mouth and her eyes rolled back in her head.

Trixie let her head fall back against the pillow. _This_ was good. Tommy, hot and heavy on her, the ache from the way he'd pushed her leg up, soothed over by his fingers crooked up inside her, his—" _Fuck,"_ she hissed. Winking one eye open, she found Tommy burying his head between her legs, bobbing up and down as he laved his tongue over her clit. She could die like this, Trixie thought. She'd already killed for him. What was a little more death?

Vaguely, she registered that she was speaking, some mixture of _God_ s and _Tommy_ s rolling off her lips. Her core was tightening, heating up, and Trixie felt impossibly close to the edge. She inhaled sharp, ready to let go, only for Tommy to—

"Where are you going?" she whined helplessly, her heart racing, legs trembling.

Even in the dark, she could make out his wicked grin. Trixie's heart kicked harder in her chest, half-terrified and half-thrilled by him. Tommy lifted her calf in his hand and pressed a kiss to it. He sat back on his knees, setting Trixie's foot back down on the mattress, before asking, "What comes next, Beatrice?"

 _What comes next?_ She wasn't finished. He hadn't let her finish. "Please, Tommy."

He leaned forward so that his face hung over hers, hands bracketing her ribs. "You'll have to do better than that."

 _Oh,_ Trixie realized. He wanted her to say it. In the dark, no blush crept up to her cheeks, even though she was positive he was searching for it. Trixie loathed to do what was expected of her, so she let out a little laugh and asked, "Fuck me?"

"Christ," Tommy muttered. "Yeah?"

She nodded. "Yeah."

To do that, he'd have to get slightly more naked, so Trixie reached for his belt and began undoing the buckle. Tommy cursed under his breath, pulling it from the loop once it was loose, and she began palming over him through the fabric. Was this the right thing to do?

His hips bucked forward, one hand flying to her shoulder as he bowed his head and let out an uncharacteristically emotive, " _Fuuuck."_ Something about what she was doing was working. Tommy undid the button and the zipper of his trousers, and Trixie shifted back to give him the room to slip them off. His cock was hard—she may not have done this before, but she could put that much together. "Can you get the tin from the drawer?" he asked.

Trixie raised an eyebrow. "Tin of what?"

"Says Ramses on it," he grunted, one hand fisting his cock. The movement mesmerized her; it was so rough. "Beatrice," he said, and she pulled her eyes away. "If you watch like that, I won't want to go slow."

She blinked, startled, and twisted around to reach for the drawer. Inside, Tommy had all sorts of things—tins of cigarettes, boxes of matches. But the Ramses box was easy to spot, shaped more rectangularly and decorated with blue and pink candy stripes. As she handed it to him, she said, "So don't go slow."

He let out a disbelieving kind of scoff, but took the box from her anyway, removing a packet from inside and tearing it open. Trixie wasn't exactly sure, but as Tommy slid the disc on, she guessed that it was some sort of contraceptive.

"Do you want to turn around?" Tommy asked, his voice suddenly serious; restrained.

"What?" Trixie asked. "Why?"

He shrugged. "Might not want to think about it being me."

Even though he looked entirely unperturbed, Trixie thought she might cry at the sentiment. She pushed herself up onto her knees and kissed him fervently, his mouth sticky and tasting of something metallic— _her_ , Trixie realized, hooking her elbows around his neck. "Don't be stupid."

Tommy seemed to understand what she meant. He lowered Trixie onto her back and drew her knees back up, parting her thighs and swiping a palm between her legs; she jolted. "Sorry," he said, but she could hear the smirk in his voice as he used her wetness to slick up his cock. "Alright?" he asked, his hands on the backs of her knees.

Trixie nodded. "Yes. Christ. Yes."

He lined himself up and began pushing into her, slower than she'd expected but just right. Nothing bled, nothing stung enough to bring tears to her eyes. There was no way around the ache, but it wasn't anything as bad as she'd expected. By the time he'd bottomed out inside her, she'd begun to relax into the feeling, pain replaced by hunger.

"Alright?" he asked again, and Trixie tried to give the question serious thought, but she was too distracted by the way her legs had already begun shaking and _Tommy fucking Shelby_ had his cock buried to the hilt inside of _her_ and she was _enjoying it_ to do anything other than nod.

Tommy was gentle at first, pulling out slowly halfway and then pushing back in again; she didn't feel particularly either way about it, really—it didn't hurt, the stretch becoming more comfortable as he moved, but it wasn't enough to send her over. "Harder," she begged, struggling to keep her voice quiet. "Please, please. Faster."

" _Jesus,"_ he said, and then he delivered, pulling out almost all the way only to thrust back in hard, and Trixie choked on a moan. He fucked into her without mercy, which she'd expected, which she'd imagined. He'd warned her to stay quiet but the bedsprings were hardly complying, and the sound of skin against skin between them was so loud that Trixie worried the whole city could hear it. Tommy, though, was silent, face betraying nothing, entirely focused on the rhythm of his thrusts.

Once he'd found the pace, Trixie began rolling her hips up too, curiously. The first time, he hadn't expected it, bumping awkwardly into her knee, but the second time she pushed up, Tommy slipped an arm under her ass and held her like that, body at a slant above the bed. He fucked into her again and—

"Oh, _God,"_ she sobbed. Tommy said nothing, just raised an eyebrow, before doing it again, eliciting another cry. "Tommy," she said, her voice coming out strangled. "Just—wait. Wait."

He withdrew, and immediately, she regretted stopping him. Trixie made quick work of reaching over the bed for something—anything. Her fingers found his shirt, and she pulled it to her naked chest.

"Yeah," she said. "Alright, uh. As you were."

Though he seemed confused, Tommy didn't object. He lifted her hips back up, dragging her down the bed and resting her on the tops of his thighs. When he began sliding into her again, Trixie brought the balled-up shirt to her mouth, burying her face in it and muffling the sigh that slipped out. He laughed, disbelieving. "Is that how it is, Beatrice?"

She made an honest effort to come up with an answer to that question, but then he started thrusting harder than before, and Trixie's mind went entirely blank. His shirt was in her mouth, and it smelled like cologne and salt, and he kept hitting that spot that had her vision whiting out.

Her core tightened and Trixie arched up, not sure if the words falling from her lips were prayers, curses, or both. All she knew was that it hurt in a way that felt absurdly good, and Tommy's breathing had gone labored, and then she was frozen in place. " _Oh—_ "

The orgasm seized her almost violently, unfurling like ice to soothe her burning skin. Tommy was relentless, his speed never so much as faltering as she came apart, and then Trixie's limbs went loose and easy, her head falling back against the pillow with relief. "Yeah?" Tommy asked, his voice hoarse.

Trixie nodded, her arm falling down to the bed and leaving the shirt draped sloppily over her breasts. "You're not—" He was still hard inside her. "Keep going."

"What?" Tommy asked. "You—"

"I'm going to watch you come," she said, bumping her hips up into his tentatively. Tommy hissed, his hand buckling and dropping him onto her. Trixie buried her grin in his shoulder, delighting in the way he reacted to her. He had seen her at her most vulnerable; she would only have him if he gave her the same. "You watched me. Your turn."

Tommy pushed back up. "Fuck, Trix," he panted.

 _Trix._ It sounded better in his voice. Tommy started back up again, bracing his hands at her sides. He fucked with a selfish urgency, like he couldn't get enough of her. Without knowing why, Trixie bit down on his shoulder, eliciting a sudden jerk forward from him that had her writhing beneath him.

She raked her nails down his back, testing out a theory that had begun to take shape somewhere between the way he was choosing to cope with the guilt of what they'd done and the way he reacted to her teeth on his neck.

Judging by the way he groaned into her ear and began bearing down even harder, Trixie guessed that she was right. She laughed despite herself and clung to him desperately, almost worried that the force of his thrusts would have her rolling off the bed. "You're gonna make me come," he warned.

Trixie fisted a hand in his hair, rough and _mean_ , and Tommy pumped into her once, twice, again, a final grunt ripping itself from his throat. He dropped his head to her chest, and Trixie raised her knees again and wrapped her arms around him, just needing something to hold onto. Neither of them moved, his body a pleasant weight blanketing her.

By the time Tommy rolled over, Trixie was on the verge of passing out. She'd seen the world, for the first time, as it was, and she didn't know what to do with it. Something was—something was _wrong_ with her, but at least the same thing was wrong with him. They had each other.

"I should go to Church," she mused, pulling the sheet up over her shoulders. Now that they'd broken apart, the chill in the room was impossible to ignore.

Tommy, somehow already lighting a cigarette in his mouth, dropped the match into the ashtray on the bedside table and turned back towards her. "Second thoughts?"

She shook her head. "I'll talk to Campbell. See if he wants to explain his men's poor manners."

He snorted, and she reached up to pluck the cigarette from his fingers. "If you want your own, you'd be better off just saying that."

"I don't," Trixie insisted. "Unless you mind me taking hits off yours."

"I've never minded before," Tommy said, but took the tab back anyway.

Neither spoke for a moment, and Trixie wondered if she was meant to leave. He didn't seem the type to spend the night with a lover, even if she only had knowledge of Lizzie to back up the claim. Even if she wanted to—which she didn't, because it was _cold_ —she couldn't. Tommy had taken the outside of the bed, and to leave she'd have to crawl, still naked, over his own naked body.

"I thought you were a nice girl," Tommy remarked. "'S what Polly said after I came back and saw you in her office. ' _Leave her be. She's a nice girl.'"_ He turned to her, illuminated by the glowing end of his cigarette.

"I _was_ a nice girl back then," Trixie insisted.

"Back then," Tommy enunciated. She eyed him, admiring the lines of his abs. "So what happened, Beatrice?"

 _You_ , she wanted to say. There was no other answer. She'd become who she needed to be to avoid being swallowed up by the jaws of his great ambitions.

But he looked at her with such painful endearment, heavy-lidded and calm, that Trixie couldn't bear to say anything that might change that. She would never have Tommy Shelby like this again—she would never have him at all, and she wanted to enjoy it while it lasted. "I don't know," she mumbled, resting her head on his chest and letting her eyes slip shut. "I just know there's no going back."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi hello! so we've finally gotten to the chapter i've been looking forward to since i planned it out six-ish months ago, and i couldn't be more excited. there's a long way to go for trixie and tommy but they've also come so far :')
> 
> thank you so much to **NutterForButter, macademilk, katawan, niathenoodle, Ameliejhene, 221BB, eunhasoojs, Shareece, Niki, bexely, oOlive, ucantstopme, befham** , and **Missingartist** for reviewing the last chapter :) and shoutout to stephanie again for betareading this. please let me know what you thought of this chapter as well if you feel so inclined and i will see you soon!
> 
>  **Chapter 26** / _A Hen in the Wolfhouse_
> 
> "I heard your husband has taken a lover," Campbell sneered.
> 
> "Perhaps." Trixie shrugged. "But I have a feeling, Inspector, that this is going to be a much bigger problem for you than for me."


	27. author’s note hello

Hello everyone! I’m sorry if the chapter notification update-baited y’all, but I know I’ve been gone a while and just wanted to explain where things are at. 

Without going into too much detail, my relationship with my parents is really strained and a lot of that comes from the fact that their marriage is really unhealthy, both for them but also myself and the rest of my family. I’ve had to make the difficult decision to cut them off entirely until they can sort out their own stuff without manipulating me in the process, and because of that, the burden of my tuition and rent is solely on me. I work but I’ve had to get a second job and am trying to see if I can get any financial aid, but things have just been really busy recently with that and I haven’t had much time to do anything except work and study and sometimes sleep. Fortunately, I should be able to get through the rest of the school year and I got a research position to support me this summer, but I’ve been so overwhelmed by the abruptness of this transition and gotten so, so behind on writing. 

That being said, I will be back! And I’ll try to update soon, even if it’s infrequent. I promise I will finish this story, regardless of what happens otherwise, it’s just taking me a little longer than I planned. 

Anyway, I just wanted to let everyone know what’s going on and say thank you to everyone who reached out to check in on me, I appreciate it more than I can say. I love you all and I hope you are all well. 


End file.
